TGS 1A: Daybreak
by byronthedeadpoet
Summary: My adaptation of Midnight Sun, gender swapped. A companion piece to my other story, Nightfall, previously posted therein. I will continue as I have time, but since this story requires so much more work to keep up continuity, I will likely be working on the other books much more often. Reviews are always welcome.
1. Chapter 1: Mute Singer

High school.  
Those two words do not adequately describe that which they entail. If you were to spend decades observing high school students, with perfect recall and telepathy, you would still be surprised with their rampant contradictory extremes. Believe me, I would know.  
Their lives are tediously limited and meaningless while also being the most significant time of their existences. They care about the most unimportant issues and while at the same time, sometimes in the same breath, discount the most necessary ones. It is the very definition of dichotomy.  
Their dualistic nature is entwined with their very selves; they speak echoes, taking their true thoughts and wants and desires and wisdom, bouncing them off of their peers, resonating them against the words and deeds and opinions of others until it produces a virtual byproduct, so unlike its true native essence as to be unrecognizable. The effect propagates exponentially, until they are acting out roles based on everyone else's falsehoods, each acting as part in a common lie of mutually assured safety, or destruction.  
With so abhorrent surrounds, one might fathom rejecting such a nefarious backdrop for one's own existence. However, one would be wrong.  
Consider, where else would such creatures as ourselves, our little family, go to exist? I say little, but it is quite large, as these things go. Seven of us, living comfortably, amiably; it is nearly twice that of any similar such covens, outside of our cousins, the Denali coven. But, to my aforementioned point; what existence should we have? We cannot live openly under the sun. We wish not to live alone. We must not direct too much attention on ourselves. The answer is simple, if unpalatable; high school.  
At the very least, we appear the appropriate age.  
In truth we are here for two reasons. One is the easiest to accept, the most easily concrete. It is for my mother, Katherine. She loves her work, caring for humans, redeeming herself for what she is in her own way, as best she knows how. She wants to minimize the differences between us and the rest of humanity, as she puts it. This is something we all accept, because we love her and knows she loves us. The second, and completely intolerable, I came to understand slowly, with my family acting more on instinct than any real subterfuge, unaware that they themselves were even acting to this end; we are here for me.  
With a single exception, every single member of my family has chosen and turned their own partner, their own second half, even if my mother was responsible for the actually transformation. Whether or not my family will admit it to themselves in their own thoughts, I know. They believe one day, I will find someone that I will, be him mortal or immortal, wish to keep, to join with us. If he is mortal, we will find a way to change him, our treaty notwithstanding.  
Unfortunately, despite their wishes, this will never happen. I will never connect with any of these nearly mindless children, and even if I did, I would never risk the soul of anyone I cared about. How many lines must I cross in this so called life? This was one that I never would.  
Instead, I trace lines. I follow the cracks in the concrete walls at the back of the room, mapping equations, fractals, tracing patterns, quantifying forces, surmising the years of stress compounded on the wall, theorizing how it would break further in the future. A fascinating pastime, to be sure, but one that has kept my mind off more interesting pursuits.  
Jasper follows the flow of the crowd. At first, he is just looking, but I can feel the change that is not very evident, the subtle shifting, as the more sophisticated parts of his brain begin the recede, as he begins to focus more and more of his attention on tracking, noticing theirs speed, their awareness, their vulnerabilities...  
Without a word, I smack him in the side of his head. I move with a speed no human could follow, leaning around and across the table, striking him firmly, yet not so hard that he has to move with the blow or risk injury. I immediately return to my exact position, so the even if someone was staring directly at us, the shift in his hair would be the only evidence that some had happened at all.  
After a moment, he turns halfway to my direction, so as to not connect his response to my invisible action in anyone's mind around us who was not our sibling.  
"Sorry," he says, so low and fast that none outside of us could hear it.  
Alice isn't happy.  
 _You don't need to humiliate him,_ she thinks. _He is doing really well. He just lost focus for a moment._  
I roll my eyes.  
I love Jasper. He isn't my favorite sibling, but he is invaluable to have around. He is one of the best fighters I know, his mind is complex and very unique, and his love of Alice is more than adequate to justify his existence. But he is just so thick sometimes.  
His eyes are black, as are the rest of ours. We are hungry, after the long weeks without sustenance, yet he, who knows his own thoughts, abilities, and limitations, as readily if not more so than the rest of our family know ours, makes the choice that risks not just failure, but worse, exposure and innocent death; prolonging that hunger to test himself, as though it is necessary to prove himself.  
 _We would stop him if it got out of hand,_ she thinks, passing over the information she had in her mind. It would have gone to far. Had we not intervened, he would have to chose the first that caught his eye, that he could have enraptured with his looks, his motion, and taken that child, here, and now.  
I wish that she would just tell him, let him know that he would have failed, but she won't and I'm not about to do it for her. He might stop this lunacy if he knew, cease this entirely unnecessary pressing of himself, waging his self worth on long odds stacked against him.  
The others would never take my side. Alice won't risk anything that might cause him discomfort. Rory and Emily are far more practical, and by practical, I mean that they just do not care. If he should fail, Rory will only care if it affects him adversely, and Emily enjoys anything that breaks up this monotony, this dull status quo, moral implications aside. Katherine and Emanuel want us to be happy, allowing us to learn from our own failures and help each other, choosing not act unless they must and aiding us only upon request.  
That just leaves me, the outsider, the unattached, the unhappy one, willing to degrade myself in the eyes of my family to do what is necessary, what is right. We are monstrous villains, whether we chose to admit it aloud or not, and considering the jeopardy our immortal souls are in, why do anything that risks them further? I must be the voice of reason, for the simply fact that if I am right, if we are truly damned for what we are, retribution may be obtainable if we choose morality, decency, and goodness above all other things. I must convey this truth onto my family, those that I love, lest we should lose this life and be separated for all eternity.  
Yet, here I sit, ignored, discounted, and without gratitude for my considerations. One day, they will understand, and they will thank me.  
Alice stands, kissing the top of Jasper's head and whispering so low that even we couldn't not hear, her lips hidden amongst his hair. He smiles at her, if a bit humorlessly, and resettles himself, his mind returning fully to a safer state.  
Everyone relaxes, and Alice traipses away to dispense with her uneaten food.  
He will be okay until lunch is over, she thinks. Don't let him sulk too much.  
Jasper is sulking. Normally, I would let him, let him tie his own noose; the sooner he learns, the better. But Alice asked, and we, the outcasts of the outcasts, the truly strange amongst the strange of the strange, must side with one another.  
"Hunting tonight?" Emily asks, sounding both ready and excited.  
"Please," I stress, sounding bored to even her out. No need to get Jasper excited again.  
Rory shrugs, actually bored, aiding me without meaning to. I listen as Jasper leeches the emotions out of his surroundings, paying attention to us especially and Rory and I in particular. I let my approval saturate my mood, and he snorts, but flicks the most infinitesimal look of thanks in my direction.  
Sensing that we are through the worst of it, Emily laughs and sits back.  
"The new boy just asked about us," she says. "He's getting all the dirt on us from Jesse Stanley."  
I smile grimly. Jesse's mild obsession with the women of the Cullen family has been long lived and... graphic. I occasionally envision his reactions if I were to inform him of Alice's inherent physique in order to try and drown out his incessant fantasies.  
 _Of course the new guy notices the Cullens,_ he thinks. _Who wouldn't? I wonder how long it will take before that stuck up bitch Edwina shoots his ass down too._  
I never did "shoot him down". He would have to be brave enough to ask me first, and he is not. Not many people here are. When they see how unusual we are, despite our many appeals, it unsettles them. It does not help that they sometimes witness us looking upon them as exactly what they are to us; prey.  
"She is totally stuck up," I hear Jesse say, his voice just as dismissive as his thoughts are resentful. "Doesn't date at all. Don't know who her type is, but so far, it isn't any of the guys here."  
As is often the case, the two notions war within his mind, vying for supremacy; the nearly vindictive satisfactions he gets at labeling me a lesbian, and the lustful thoughts of me being intimate with other women he believes to be attractive, mostly my adopted sisters. I sigh and Emily looks at my face, putting Jesse's words and my reactions together.  
 _Any time you want to make out with me in front of him, let me know,_ she thinks. _That would be hilarious._  
I contain my amusement, flicking my eyes to Rory.  
 _What?_ she thinks. _He would forgive me. Eventually._  
I give her an expectant look.  
 _Yeah, but he hates you anyway,_ she thinks.  
I listen to hear what the new student thinks. And listen. And I hear nothing.  
I turn, my eyes finding him, starting to turn back from looking at Jesse. His eyes find mine, and freeze.  
His eyes are brown, wide, and unwavering. There is an openness to those eyes, a certain exposure. It is almost as though something that is normally hidden has been laid bare in him, that he is open where so many are closed. He looks away quickly, by human standards, but he looked directly and steadily into my eyes almost three times as long as most humans ever do.  
I try to pick out what he thinks, his reaction of us, of me, but again, I hear nothing. Silence.  
I turn back to the table, cutting off everything, focusing my entire consciousness on this single purpose, boring down into the spot where he sits, trying harder to hear than I ever have in my existence, and get nothing.  
"I cannot hear him," I say, low and fast, so that only my family can hear.  
Jasper's eyes flash, immediately examining the boy, accessing. Rory acts as though he had not heard.  
"Duh," says Emily, "he isn't saying anything."  
I look at her significantly.  
 _Oh,_ she thinks. _OH!_  
"What does it mean?" asks Jasper.  
"I do not know," I say. "This is a first."  
"Just talk to Katherine about it," says Rory. "She will know what to do."  
The bell rings, and I make may my way to Biology, discarding my own food as I go, sliding through the crowd by virtue of an efficient step and most people consciously make way for me. I get to class and take my usual seat at the back of the class, alone. So familiar, but I am not alone for long.  
I look up and the new student, one Benjamin Hawkins, is speaking with the teacher. He has darker hair, though not black, with more turns than can be call wavy yet not enough to want to call it curly. His skin is soft and rather pale, with just a barest hint of freckling that the human eye could not readily see, speaking of its fairness. He is thin, rather spare, with an odd sort of jerkiness to his movements that I could not fully understand without further study. He is taller than average, a hairsbreadth under six feet, just a bit more than my five nine. His face conveys a slight nervousness, a vague discomfort, and a certain determination that I am not used to seeing on someone so young, an expectation and acceptance to the unavoidable hardships of one's own existence. As he turns and sees me, he stares in a way that some girls might find flattering, and I just consider being looked upon. Though, after a half second, I have to examine it more closely in my mind. Without his mind to go from, I suddenly find it hard to interpret him precisely. I'm not sure exactly what his features convey, but I get the general sense that he is not making much of my appearance, at least not in the way that most people attracted to the fairer sex would. He does not linger over much, simply notices, looks on, then moves towards me.  
I found myself actually pleased by this development. The opportunity to examine his mute mind a leisure is compelling, and the chance to speak with him, maybe draw out some secret to this silence, is really quiet welcome.  
As he moves down the aisle, his movements loose a bit of their jerky quality, and I am wondering why that is exactly when I kill him.  
The shock nearly has me throwing myself backwards, preparing to climb the walls or dig through them, trying to get away from something so desirable, that desire an equal force to the drive to close with him, keeping me from flight.  
Wait. If I still have the desire, he can't be dead. And sure enough, he is still moving towards me.  
Kill him.  
Witnesses.  
Meaningless. Kill him. Drink him.  
Many witnesses.  
How many?  
Fifteen.  
Kill them.  
They could bring more.  
Kill them quickly, quietly. Then kill him, drink.  
Risk. Danger.  
Options.  
Kill him later.  
NOW! KILL! DRINK!  
Wait. Minutes. Less than an hour. Invite him away. Hide. Then kill him.  
Now!  
Wait.  
Now...  
Pain. I can feel my throat. Words can barely describe it. Burning. Searing. Desiccation. My mouth wells with venom, so much that I dare not open it. Swallowing only makes it worse. I must kill him. Kill him?  
Slowly, my consciousness draws itself out of the all-encompassing consumption of the hunt, reawakening faculties that shut themselves off, allowing full focus to be directed to the object of our feeding.  
Pain! Burning! Feed! KILL HIM!  
The only thing that allows me to hold on to the barest hint of myself is the need to wait. It would be better-  
NO!  
-BETTER if I waited, killed only him. I cannot risk my family.  
Family. Katherine.  
NO! Kill-  
Katherine. Her face. Her smile. Her unerring goodness. Her love. I cannot.. I cannot... I cannot...  
He sits down. Inches away. So close.  
I stop breathing. Turn away. The scent. I try not to think about it, shutting out everything, severing all connections with the memory of it in my mind, thinking of anything I can, everything that I can that does not involve that smell. If we had been alone...  
Kill!  
NO! Hide it away, be still, be quiet. Do not breath. Wait. Hold. See nothing. Say nothing. Do nothing.  
Time passes. I recite to myself every book I have ever read, play every piece of music I have read or written, recall every film, and view every piece of artwork. When that runs thin, I begin calculating. I calculate primes, the Fibonacci sequence, tau, pi, and e. I start counting the number of people I have ever spoken to, the number of faces I can recall, dividing them by their gender, their hair and eye color, their spoken language and where I met them. I begin rewriting my books into every language that I know, as many books and as many languages as my mind can contain. I begin to count the number of seconds that I have spent with each of my family members, including the seconds I have spoken to them, or they have spoken to me, how many seconds I have looked upon them, how many I have hear them, how many seconds they were close enough for me to know their thoughts. Never have I ever expended so much energy in my entire life.  
The obstinacy begins to build. Who is the hell is this insidious child, coming into my school, my home, assaulting me with this... this fragrance!  
MINE! KILL HIM NOW-  
I bite it back, let the burning red recede from my vision. I want to... leave... I must...  
He turns towards me. Looks at me. I look back. I let it show. I let my anger and my desire to end him fill my face. I realize that I hope he understands, hope he sees that his life is danger, hope that he runs. Half of me wants him to run so he can get away. Half of me wants him to run so that I can chase him. I just register his confusion when some counter in my head ticks down to zero.  
I stand, my chair hitting the back wall as the bell rings. It takes nearly as much effort as it took not to kill him as it does to leave the room, and to do so at human speeds. Once in the hall, heading away from the path that would have carried him here from the cafeteria, I take huge, gasping breaths, purposefully flushing my lungs, washing away the scent that nearly destroyed me.  
I make it to Spanish, sit in my usual seat behind Emily. She gets there a moment after I do.  
 _Wow, who died?_ she thinks at me, looking at my face. I look at her, and I am sure the my hollowed expression redoubles.  
 _Whoa!_ she thinks. _Who died!?_  
I say nothing, miserable. Now that my head is clear, I am full to bursting with my own weakness, my failure, my own monstrous inhumanity. I say in fluid Spanish to Mr. Goff that I am not feeling well and request to put my head down for the remainder of the class, staying that I will write a short essay on a subject of his choosing to make up for my lack of participation. He waves it off and say that I am perfectly welcome to do so without the essay. I hide my face and silently scream for the length of class. Five minutes before class is over, I take a deep breath and decide that action is a better course than reaction. I ask to be excused and head to the front office.  
Just before opening the door, I undo a button on my top, shift my shoulders back, resettle myself so that my frame is open, accepting, shift the pitch of my voice, place a winning smile on my lips, increase the expression that show upon my face, and hide every negative emotion that I have spent the last few hours simmering in.  
I walk into the office, and Mr. Cope's eyes bug a little as I walk towards him, loosening my torso that it rolls and sways more with each step.  
"Hey, Mr. Cope," I say, affecting the gushing, almost simpering tones that the girls of this school use around boys that they secretly like. I lean on the counter, crossing my wrists and leaning my chin on the back of one hand, biting my lip and smiling.  
"I was wondering if you could help me with something," I say, inviting him in and requesting a "yes" from him right off the bat.  
 _Jesus,_ he thinks, _she's younger than Tamara! Get a grip, man!_  
"Yes, Ms. Cullen," he says, his voice tremulous. "What can I do for you?"  
I grin broadly, dropping my wrists as I lean forward on the counter. His eyes go wide as they lock upon my face, determinedly refusing to move lower than my nose.  
Putting humans off their guard is something we are especially skilled at. I am thankful for it now. I need to get out of that class.  
"I was wondering, is there anyway I could transfer out of Mrs. Banner's Biology class?" I ask, looking uncomfortable and shrinking my posture slightly, as though fearing rebuke and simultaneously appearing weaker. "The work is not really all that challenging for me."  
Immediately, his full attention scrabbled to help me out.  
He opens a scheduling book, not trusting himself to get it right. Human memories are muddled and weak, I'm often amazed that they function as well as they do.  
He reads down a list, "What period do you have the class?"  
"Sixth," I say quite pleasantly, as though he has already given me a yes, bouncing on the balls of my feet a little.  
The bell rings, and students begin filling the hallways. Soon a few are walking in and out of the office.  
"Hmm," he says. "There isn't much I could do for you. Mr. Gary has an advance level physics class, but he usually likes to access students himself to see of they can handle the material, and I've never seen him accept a transfer into the class once it's started, let alone this late in the semester."  
I frown, evoking a disheartened expression.  
"There must be something you can do," I say. "Please, what about independent study?"  
He bobs his head, "It might be possible. I'm sure that Mrs. Banner wouldn't mind overseeing your work."  
That would only leave me with the same problem.  
"What if I dropped the class altogether, or test out of it?" I ask.  
"I don't see how that would be possible," he says. "Even if they let you test in the middle of a semester, which is very unlikely, you would need to transfer into another class, and not many teachers have classes you still need for graduation in the period, and I'm not sure how many would be willing to let you transfer anyway. In the end, it comes to the same thing. Why not just finish the class? I'm sure that Mrs. Banner can help make the material challenging enough for you."  
I am going to kill him. The burn and desire rips through me the way I will rip through him. I turn slowly, piercingly doing all that I possibly to can to not let my mind slip, not let myself think about the fact that there is only two of them here, much more reasonable than the class room. Benjamin is standing behind me, with a slip in hand, waiting. I resist calculating flights, trajectories, avenues of attack, statistics on chance...  
How dare he! I am trying to be a righteous person, trying to save his life, and he keeps accosting me with these desires, with this... most delectable scent.  
Kill him! Do it! Take him! Hurt him! Kill him!  
"Never mind," I say. "If it isn't possible, I understand. Thank you so very much for your help."  
As soon as I move, I immediately start towards him, and the best I can do is angle around him, trying to brush the scent away from my face, concentrating all my will on walking out of that warm, scent enriched little room.  
As soon as I am in the hall, I all but run for the parking lot. Alice has the others in the car, concerned but ready. I slip into the driver's seat and rev the engine. The students give us space, and I pull out, moving quickly, almost risking injuring them and displace more of them with my haste. Once we are out of the parking lot, I feel safer, but after a picosecond, I can feel my family's eyes on me, sense their thoughts hammering at me, all except Alice.  
"What's happening?" Jasper finally asks her.  
"I don't know," Alice says. "It's too close a thing. She keeps changing her mind, so quickly I can't follow one single thread yet."  
I look into her mind, see myself pacing at home, then decide to see if I can find him. A plan forms in both of myselves' minds, present and future, and in a flash of forward time, I am in his kitchen, his broken body all but underfoot, my glowing eyes as full and red as my garish smile.  
"No!" I scream, so loud that they actually turn away from my voice in the confined space.  
"She's going to-" Alice begins.  
"No," I deny. "It's not going to happen! I won't let it!"  
Her vision moves along. I decide to go hunting tonight, to dampen my thirst, on the way back, I seek him out again. I am waiting for him when he walks into his room after dinner. When he sees me, he does not run, he does not cry out for help, he does not look afraid, he does not fight, he just looks at me, confused. He does not resist, even as I take his life...  
"She's going to kill Benjamin Hawkins," she says, sounding almost sad for some reason. "He smells almost irresistible to her."  
Something twists in me, hard. There is a sharp sound of impact as the steer wheel cracks. The moment I kill him in her thoughts moves further and further into the future, then sooner, then further and further, then sooner again, then tonight. I cannot let it happen.  
Alice gives a little gasp of surprise.  
"Can't you at least say goodbye to Emanuel?" she asks. "He's going to be hurt, even if he will never say anything."  
"She's leaving?" asked Rory condescendingly.  
We pull up to the drive and I stop. Alice gets out immediate and Jasper follows her. Emily smiles a little wistfully, but punches my shoulder and slides out. Rory shakes his head.  
 _Idiot,_ he thinks. From him, that is the closest I will get to a goodbye.  
They run to the house and for a moment, I cannot even think straight for wanting to go find him, this moment. Instead, I drive to the hospital.  
Katherine is in her office, filling out paperwork at human speeds. The idea sickens me for some reason. As soon as I walk in the door, she smiles at me, sees my expression, and then is instantaneously concerned.  
 _What is it, my daughter?_ she thinks.  
I bow my head as she takes my shoulders, watching me with patience and sympathy, allowing me the time I need.  
I still as the extreme stress and pain washes over me in the presence of my adopted mother. I let go, but don't break down.  
"Have you ever smelt someone," I say quickly, "who was... extremely appealing?"  
"I have not," she said, "but I know others who have and I have heard of such things before. Who?"  
"Benjamin Hawkins," I say, feeling a tremor vibrate through me. "The police chief's son, returned to Forks."  
She nods, and says the most heartbreaking thing she can, "What are you going to do?"  
How could she ask me that? Her! As though kill him was so easy, so simple! As though she could so easily accept me after I proved myself to be the monster I am...  
"I am going to Denali," I say flatly.  
She smiles, "Teodor will be pleased."  
I frown, "I am not going because of him.  
She laughed ruefully, "I know. But you might want to make that clear to him, even if you say nothing else."  
I nod.  
"Take all the time you need, child," she says, kissing my forehead. "Do what you think is best."  
Slipping away, I desperately wish I knew how. I walk out the door and leave.


	2. Chapter 2: Revisitation

The Denali home is nearly as nice as ours. Alice is just as willing to give them stock tips as she does us, though they need it less. The main family, Teodor, Kristof, and Imrich, are the oldest vampires I have ever met. While they have the room for me to stay indefinitely, I feel underfoot while I am here, even though I am currently on the roof.  
I look up at the night's sky, truly one of the most beautiful sights there is. The glowing colors of the infinite universe shine like gems, soft and yet sharp, hard and bright and pure. I could watch it for hours and feel no need to stop.  
Teodor leaps up to the edge of the roof, his curls blonder than my hair, but still reddish. His casual clothing is so incongruous with the cold, yet the light colors compliment the snow and his skin. He crouches some distance from me, not looking at me.  
 _Am I disturbing you?_ he thinks. I don't speak but I don't ask him to leave. Shifting his gaze, he admires my face, knowing that I know what he's doing, despite the fact that my eyes haven't left the sky. Reminding him that I am not interested will never belay his confidence, but it has become tedious reminding him constantly that his efforts are wasted, so I simply ignore them.  
 _Please,_ he thinks. _Such a creature as yourself shouldn't be so disheartened. Won't you let me help you? Confide in me._  
A creature like me should be heartbroken. A creature like me should not exist in an ideal world.  
He moves to sit beside me. I do not move at all.  
"I won't cast judgment upon you," he says. I blink bits of snow out of my eyes. He would, even if he would not admit it to himself. But I will not tell him. My shame runs too deep.  
Here, so far away from Forks, my eyes on the sky, I am no less drawn back home, back to him. The memory of his scent is still on me, even if I had not recalled it. The rest of the events, the memories I did not think overmuch as they were happening, have been with me every moment since I left, analyzed, thought over, considered, and left me wanting and wondering.  
Alice's messages shed no light on the situation. I would not answer my phone, though I could hear as she relays her messages to them and through their thoughts.  
"No notice of my absence. No change at all. Occasional stares at our lunch table. No questions."  
I cannot help but try and decipher all the events. He raised no alarm at my activity. He had not questioned it. He accepted it. All of it. He even went so far as to accept me killing him in Alice's visions. Why? Was he too afraid to react? He had not looked afraid. Did he welcome the inevitable? Or death? Was he so unhappy with his life that he did not care?  
As I sit, thinking of all this, Kristof joins us. He sits on the other side of me, looking into the stars, saying nothing. Extrovert though he is, he knows when he should be quiet and thoughtful, when he is not being ruthlessly practical and a bit bullheaded.  
 _You're running,_ he thinks. _But it seems like what you are running from is with you still. What is it? Or who?_  
I find myself looking at him. He puts a hand on my shoulder.  
 _You are hard upon yourself,_ he thinks, _but you are not a coward._  
I feel like a coward. He is right. I am hiding here like a child. And he is right again; he is still with me, even now.  
"How can we help?" asks Teodor again. I know nothing they do will help. I must do this, do something. I just need to make a choice.  
"What are my options?" I ask.  
"You can stay with us," says Teodor, his thoughts drifting towards a long-term courtship until he sees me raise my eyebrows at him. He laughs and moves on.  
"You could return home," Kristof says and adds in his mind, _and face what you are running from._  
"You could go somewhere else," says Teodor, "find a new place all your own, start a new life."  
New name, new story, new life; it sounds appealing. But I know that if he is with me still, he will be with me wherever I go.  
I think about going back. What awaits me at home? Pain, risk, temptation, family, and, the mystery. Why is his mind closed to me? What does he think in his silent mind? He does presumably think. I find that I want to go back, to see, to understand, to know. I feel compelled. Even if I should stay here or branch off on my own, the thought of never knowing his thoughts seems... very unsatisfactory.  
"You're leaving," says Teodor, somewhat disgruntled. Kristof rolls his eyes and shoves him behind my back. Not wanting to damage the roof, Teodor has little choice but to slide and fall to the ground below. I smile and slide off behind him, followed by Kristof.  
I step inside to say my goodbyes, thanking them for the week they have kept me. Teodor looks as though he might follow me out for one last goodbye, but Carlos gives him a cross look, and he thinks better of it. I leave, driving south, continuously for thirty-six hours, stopping only for gas. I do the calculations and realize that I may make it in time to go to school with my siblings when I arrive back in Forks on Thursday.  
The snow seems to follow me as I make it back to Washington, and I just pull ahead of the storm as I make it back to town. I pull up to the house, finding Alice there with a change of clothing. I step into the entryway closet and step out a second later in fresh clothes. She is bubbly with gratitude at my return, and after a bouncy hug, she walks with me into the living room as my sibling are preparing to leave for school.  
Emanuel is at my side in a moment, his hand at my cheek, his joy at my return nearly painfully evident.  
"Welcome home," he says with great sincerity, and the others, all but Rory, smile and embrace me.  
"Mom's at the hospital," says Alice. "She'll be home after school."  
 _Are you sure you want to do this?_ she thinks. I let my amusement show on her face. She looks ahead and laughs. _Okay, you're sure. If you need to bail or anything, let us know. We are here to help._  
I think for a moment and decide what to do. I look at Alice, who looks forward again and nods approvingly.  
"Let's go," says Alice. "I'm driving."  
"What about her?" asks Rory.  
"She'll meet us there," Alice replies.  
After one last embrace from Emanuel, I slip out the back and run. The moment feels amazing, the earth underfoot, the forest around me, taking action, moving forward. I bring down two elk and am on a second deer when I start to feel almost uncomfortably full. I cross back around to the woods outside school, watch as the car pulls up, just as Alice has seen she would, and at the precise moment when no one is looking, she opens the door and I speed invisibly into to that spot and the move as though I have just stepped out from the driver's seat. She slips into the back, getting out with everyone else.  
I look around.  
 _He isn't here yet,_ thinks Alice. _Relax! You won't have any problems until at least lunch._  
I look at her and whisper, "Lunch?"  
 _You'll see him at lunch,_ she thinks, heading to class. _But you can easily avoid everything at lunch unless something changes between now and then. Things won't be really dicey until Biology. Focus. There is still a real possibility that you will kill him._  
I feel myself shutter, nearly equal parts revulsion and anticipation.  
"What's the big deal?" I hear Emily whispering to Rory. "Either she kills him or she doesn't. It doesn't change anything."  
As much as I appreciate her nonchalance, this did matter. I want to be more than just someone who follows conventions until it gets hard. I want to be more than just someone who claims to be moral until it is difficult. I want to be more than just someone who is humane until it is too inconvenient not to be a monster.  
The day continues just as Alice said. I do not see him at all before lunch, and the snow finally catches up to us. I think about slipping into the minds of people around me, tracking him down and watching him, but I find myself wondering if looking for him is something that could change events, make it dangerous for me, for him. I need to be careful and err on the side of caution.  
Finally, at lunch, I meet with my siblings at our usual table, find that they are happy to see me back, even Rory, thinking an endearing _Idiot_ at me as I sit down. Well, endearing by his standards at the very least.  
"How do you feel?" asks Alice.  
"I am good," I say. "So long as I stay away from his scent, I will not have a problem."  
"You won't have to worry about that," she says. "So long as you stay in your seat and don't go talk to him, lunch will be fine."  
I look at her. I am not planning to go talk to him. What would change before lunch is over for me to want to do that?  
I reach out with my mind, doing something I have never done before; I listen to find someone I can't hear. Of course, the first person I chose to check, given the information I have, is the correct answer.  
 _What the hell is Ben complaining about?_ thinks Jesse. _It isn't that cold!_  
He is looking at Ben, who looks amused, though the thin layer of amusement barely masks his look of discomfort. I look at his slight hunch and his posture and see that his body is reacting to the cold.  
The words he had just spoken were still in Jesse's mind.  
"I swear, I am going to pick up a slicker after school if this keeps up."  
They make their way into the cafeteria, but just before they make it to the lunch line, Ben stops walking.  
Jesse stops too, looking at him. He looks a little pale, his lips parted, his eyes wide and still. I want to turn, to look and see what is going on, but I am being careful, so I skim the minds around the two, getting as much information as I can.  
He is staring at us.  
"Ben," Jesse says, "Helllloo. Ben. Hey! New Guy! Yo! Earth to Ben!"  
Ben starts, comes back to himself.  
"What?" he says, looking back at Jesse. He still looks very pale, not at all well.  
 _Is he alright? Man, I hope nothing is wrong with him? Can you go into shock from this much_ _cold?_  
"Seriously, dude," says Jesse, sounding genuinely concerned, "are you okay?"  
His concern is surprising until he goes on and says, "You're not going to puke, right? See, I have this thing about puking, and I can't puke here where... people might see me."  
His mind and eyes look towards the table they usually sit at, where Mickie Newton is just walking up. A pang of longing shift through him, just clouding the thought that if he did a single wrong thing, one social faux pas, she would never even consider giving him a chance.  
"I'm fine," says Ben, his tone downplaying his activity. They move through the line, and I desperately want to know what is going on inside his head. Suddenly I understand what Alice meant about going over to him at lunch. The desire to know is not nearly as strong as my thirst, but it is just as unquenchable. However, if I want to know, all I have to do is ask. In Biology.  
I turn, watching as they come out of the line, looking at him with my own eyes, not the dull human eyes, focusing directly on him, using my own knowledge to understand.  
Ben looks nervous. He holds the single soda in his hands, which is odd when compared to the other meals around him. Why isn't he hungry? What is he thinking?!  
 _She's back!_  
I blink. No. That was not him.  
"Dude," says Jesse, "When did..."  
 _Wait! What the hell?! She is totally staring at Ben! What the actual hell!_  
He decides to sound excited to cover his monumental envy, stage whispering, "Edwina Cullen is totally checking you out, dude."  
He is going to respond. It takes real effort not to lean forward in anticipation.  
"Really?" he says, his tone casual, but it sounds very forced. "That's weird. I haven't seen her since my first day."  
He noticed. My absence was marked. This revelation pleases me until I remember why he would have noted it. I looked at him as though I was going to kill him.  
"Yeah," Jesse says, his tone resentful, hinting at the perceived unfairness of it all. "But the Cullens cut school all the time. They get straight A's, so the teachers practically let them get away with murder."  
Ben laughs. It is quick and quickly silenced.  
Suddenly, a slightly less than frozen ball of snow splatters against the side of my head.  
 _Oh my_ _god,_ thinks Emily. _You really didn't catch that?!_  
I turn, dripping snow in my hair.  
To my surprise, I see Alice shaking the remnants of ice from her hand. I use the look of shock and horror on my face to cover my next action. As I paw at the particles of ice, I gather them and throw them at Emily. Before they leave my hand, Alice whispers, "Ben is watching us. Be human."  
Before Emily can figure out what that means, the ice is flying and she cannot get out of the way without casting suspicion on us. She sighs as the ice hits her face, and she affects shock as well. Rory slides back, getting out of our way as we laugh and fling the final bits of ice about.  
"He isn't looking anymore," Alice says. She made it happen, using her knowledge to pull our strings and make us dance. She did it to make us seem more human, to give Ben something other than my glaring face to think of when he thinks of me. I am unexpectedly grateful.  
He doesn't look back for the rest of lunch. I keep waiting for him to speak, to say more, to say something, anything, but nothing. He does not say one word that offers any more insight into who he is for the rest of the period.  
The bell rings. I stand.  
 _I am skipping next period,_ Alice thinks. _If something is about to go wrong, I will pull you out of class. You have the strength to walk away if you need to._  
I nod. This is going to work. I am going to get answers. I will not kill him. I am ready.  
I make it to Biology before him, as I did the day before. As I take my seat, I inhale, catching the tiniest whiff of him sitting here every weekday, in the same chair. I take a deep full breath, deciding to breathe as little as possible for the rest of the class.  
It actually takes him longer to get to Biology than it did on his first day. He looks at me, sitting here, and drops his eyes. His jerky movements are back but are somewhat weighted down. I watch him, unblinking, trying to unlock as much about him as I can.  
 _Uh-uh! No! You can't!_  
Mickie Newton glances back and forth between the two of us, utterly dismayed by the way that I am looking at him. How could I explain that I have no romantic interest in him, that I am just studying him so that I can understand why I unable read his thoughts and why he smells so unbelievably appealing that I have to try really hard not to kill him? What am I even doing in the same room as these humans?  
He sits down, and I decide that now is as good a time as any. I make my voice light, retain my relaxed posture, and turn towards him and say pleasantly, "Hello."  
He turns to me, looking as though I just handed him a fifty question essay exam on the Treaty of Heiligen.  
"I... hi," he says, nearly missing the table as he puts down his books.  
I try to put him at easy and smile pleasantly.  
 _NO!_  
I ignore Mickie. Ben's eyes go a little wider, but the nervous expression leaves his face.  
"I didn't get the chance to introduce myself the Monday before last," I say politely. "My name is Edwina Cullen."  
I pronounce it correctly, the 'i' as a long 'e', with the stress upon the second syllable. Everyone usually stresses the first, leaving the 'i' short.  
He pauses slightly longer than I would have guessed, then says, "I'm Benjamin Hawkins."  
He looks a little displeased for some reason, and I say, "You don't prefer Ben?"  
Everyone thinking about him the first day they after they had met him thought of him as Ben. Somewhere around day two in Denali, I started to think of him as such.  
His eyebrows draw together, "I do prefer Ben, in fact. How did you know that?"  
I made a mistake? I made a mistake! One greeting, three full sentences, and eighteen seconds in, and already, I have made a mistake. And what is more, he caught it, almost immediately. I begin calculating a response quickly. His clothing is second hand, his posture slightly hunched. He doesn't shave, nor does he particularly need to. His hair is unkempt, his clothes wrinkled. He is not a stringently formal person, somewhat casual, almost lazy perhaps, not drawing attention to himself. He wants to seem small, be unnoticed, not draw attention to himself.  
My answer is simple and true, "You really don't strike me as the 'Benjamin' type."  
However, for all that, I now have two hundred and fifty-seven questions I would like to ask him, beginning with what he is thinking right now.  
He quickly replies, "I wasn't aware that I struck you as anything."  
I want very badly to ask him to explain, but Mrs. Banner is passing out slides of Onion Root Tip Cell for the lab in which we examine the stages of Mitosis. I spent an evening in the twenties with Katherine as she described and thought of all the conversations she had with Walther Flemming on his work, in detail. Between her teachings and my two M.D.'s, I have a fairly solid grasp of the lab that she is setting up for us.  
We both look at one another, judging who will act first and who will follow suit. I am more than capable of completing this lab without the microscope, perhaps with a single look with all slides aligned, except for reading their labels. But by waiting for him to act and seeing how he behaves will give me more insight into his character, so naturally, I do nothing.  
He waits patiently for a moment to see what I will do, but as soon as he sees me do nothing, he does not insist or waste time. He simply picks up the slide, and with an experienced hand, slips the slide into place and adjusts the microscope relatively quickly while looking into the eyepiece.  
While he is doing this, I decide to refill my air supply. I turn my head to one side, and breathe deep the clearest bit of air I can get. His scent screams down my throat, leaving it barren and my venom welling. It is just as painful and distracting as it was before, but I can bare it only a little better. I calculate the number of 'E's I have every read, spoken, or heard when he pulls back from the scope and looks at me thoughtfully.  
"What do you think?" he asks.  
I manage not to laugh at the irony of him asking me that question, but I also want to laugh because I find myself elated. Some much information! He is not dominant, willing to allow a female to take the lead. When she does not, he does not insist or tries to change her decision. He chooses to act, not wasting time. Once he has the information required for the lab, which I am fairly sure is correct, he does not boast pridefully about it or insinuate that he is better than me. He asks for my input without spoon-feeding me the answer. He treats me like an equal. I decide to treat him the same.  
I look through the eyepiece, then lean back and say in nearly the same tone, "What do you think?"  
He seems almost reluctant somehow, but says surely, "Prophase."  
He is right. I nod and pull out a piece of paper, writing our answers down. As I am doing this, he begins replace the slide with a new one, which I had intended to do, so I simply begin to look into the eyepiece and adjust when something warm and soft touches my hand.  
For the smallest possible perceptible moment of time, I do nothing. It feels amazing. I can feel the nearly soothing heat of it permeate my flesh to the bone, feel the subtle almost inviting way it contours to me. The sensation is almost electric and in that moment, I realize that it is his hand upon mine.  
I wish to stay there, to linger with my skin to that feeling, but I know what the temperature of our skin is. I know how hard it is. If I stay in contact with him too long, I risk my family. So I pull away.  
He has pulled his hand away too. He looks embarrassed, and I feel a little annoyed. I wanted to do this part, and here he was, touching my hand and making me... I would have sighed if it wouldn't have wasted my air. He has done nothing wrong. It is in no way helpful to blame him.  
"Please," he says, his voice thick, and I feel a bit guilty for my blaming. I check the eyepiece and let him check as well. Once he has and leans back, I write the correct answer, allowing him to see and state if he thinks I got it wrong, which he does not.  
So it continues, the pattern repeating as it did the first two times through, except without us touching, our actions becoming more sure with every new slide. Once we are done with all four, while the others are still only on the first or second, I have to ask, "Have you done this lab before?"  
"I was taking honors courses back in Phoenix," he says rather humbly.  
I nod, but then a new question enters my head, one that I want answered almost as painfully as my throat feels at that moment.  
"Why did you transfer here then?" I ask, wondering how many question I can ask before he becomes irritated. It will not be enough, but I will ask more another time.  
He looks taken aback and seems to collect his thoughts and words, which makes me even more curious. Surely others have asked him this before. Why is he not ready with his answer? I want to know what he is thinking!  
"My dad remarried," he said simply, way too simply for me. I want answers!  
"That doesn't explain anything," I say, glad I am not screeching this at him.  
He lets out a low sigh, but not in such a way that I think this is an uncomfortable topic for him, but in a way that allows him time to choose his words. Does he not usually talk about himself with others?  
"My dad is sort of young for his age," he says. "Felicia is practically closer to my age than his. It's hard to have a kid around when you're young and in love and newly married."  
 _Why is she talking to him!?_ Mickie's thoughts are almost too loud to ignore. _She could talk to anyone! Why does it have to be him?! He is cute and nice and way too good for some preppy plastic surgery ridden Barbie doll rich girl! URGH!_  
I recall leaving here. I think about being away from my family, feeling stuck, having no choice but to be away from home. Then I think about how I would feel if what was done to me, was done by someone else, who was only interested in their own happiness. I start to feel emotional, almost defensive of the boy before me, forced out of his home and into a place where he is stifled and seemingly forgotten. As bad as I felt having to leave, and as much as I blamed him, I never considered that he might have it worse than me, in his own way.  
"Your father sent you here to live with your mother," I question, wanting deeply to right this wrong, "so he could be alone with his new wife?"  
I start running over a list of private schools in the area, thinking of ones that will have accelerated programs that he might enjoy, but my mind begins to runs sluggishly for reason I don't have time to investigate, my list of ideas running short with no school seeming to fit. I am deciding that I must get to know him better to more adequately select a possible school for him when he speaks again.  
"No," he says, sounding quite irritated. "I came here on my own."  
This completely derails me. It was his decision? Why? What reason could he have to come here, to a lesser school, to a climate he finds unpleasant, to a place where he has no real friends, no established existence, by choice? From what I could see, he is not happy here, and he has inflicted this upon himself?  
"I do not understand," I say, oddly discomfited by this. I am so used to knowing, understanding, seeing so much more, often more than my family, with maybe the exception of Alice. And yet, here I sit, beside someone who seems like more of a mystery the more I speak with him.  
He seems resigned as he takes a full breath and says with some trepidation, "Felicia does modeling, well enough that she gets work all around the country, but not well enough that she can choose a city to work in exclusively. So my dad had the choice of traveling with her or staying with me. I just made the decision easier for him."  
He made the choice to to spare his father a tough decision? He decided to move here so that his father could be happy? He freely sacrificed himself for the sake of a parent? What has happened to this boy, that has made him feel so worthless, that he is willing to give up so much for someone, and gets nothing in return?  
Mrs. Banner walks over to our table, having noticed that we don't appear to be working.  
"How is the lab going?" she asks. _I know he can do his own work. Is he thinking about riding the little know-it-all's coattails?_  
"We already finished," Ben says, pointing at the paper under my hand, which I am thankful for because I am running low on air again.  
She looks at the paper.  
 _That is what I thought. She's doing all the work. I'll show her!_  
"I hope you let your partner do some of the work too, Ms. Cullen," she says, her acid so subtle that you would have to be listening for it to catch it.  
I smile with deep satisfaction at the fact that she is both wrong about him and me.  
"He did his full share, I assure you, Mrs. Banner," I say, my smugness perhaps a little more evident than her acidity. "He was in an advanced placement course in Phoenix."  
I am nearly out of air, so I glance at him, hoping he will speak further if necessary. Instead, he looks rather embarrassed and doesn't look up from the table. What is he thinking!?  
"Alright," says Mrs. Banner almost cattily. "Just find something quietly to do for the rest of the lesson, please."  
He pulls out his book, flipping pages, than stares at his book, his eyes not moving side to side. I use the last of my air as I say, "That doesn't seem very fair."  
He lets out a heavy sigh, looking at the ceiling a moment before turning towards me again, "What doesn't?"  
I take a moment to refill my lungs, pretending to stretch my neck. I spend the time trying not to kill him by thinking of what I should ask and how I should say it. I decide to ask about his motives.  
"You moved up here, where it is cold and uncomfortable, and you have no friends," I say, trying to sound matter of fact, non-confrontational. "What are you getting out of this?"  
He turns, looking undeniably angry, directly into my eyes, and appears as though he is about to make some harsh retort, but as he opens him mouth, his face relaxes and he asks, "What's wrong with your eyes?"  
His question confuses me. My eyes are perfect, exponentially better than any human's eyes.  
"Nothing," I say, feeling a little defensive myself. "They are perfectly fine."  
He just stares at me, as though unsure, and says, "Last time I saw you, they were practically black."  
Again. Again?! Who is this boy!? He is smart, but doesn't want to admit it to others. He is more perceptive than most humans I have ever interacted with, but he will still willingly socialize with people like Jesse Stanley and Lauren Mallory and... me, all things considered! He is considerate of others feelings, but not concerned about his own. He appears completely unaware of how utterly unique he is, his silent thoughts aside. And, I get the feeling that I am only starting to scratch the surface of who he is.  
I am about to outright deny the color of my eyes, which is entirely correct about, but this reminds me of the unfairness he already faces and feels wrong somehow. I settle for saying something that is both true and beside the point.  
I roll my eyes as I say, "If I had black eyes, I believe I would have noticed."  
Once that point is covered, I find that I can't wait much longer for his answer. So quickly, it sounds as though I intend to continue thusly the whole time, I say, "You didn't answer my question; what are you getting out of this?"  
He does not look at all happy with my question. He flattens his lips, then says in a constricted voice, "Did it ever occur to you that this isn't about what I want? My dad deserves to be happy."  
I look deep into his face. This is not about him feeling worthless? He is choosing to make someone else happy? He is deciding to be a good person, to do what is right. He cares about someone else's happiness more than his own. I feel... something. I can't really understand it at the moment. His decisions is quite courageous but also seems somewhat self-destructive in a way I do not want to abide.  
"Don't you deserve to be happy too?" I ask, the words sounding almost forlorn in my ears once they are out.  
He slouches, as though giving in to the obvious. It is almost as though he has been trying desperately to ignore this fact.  
"Yes, of course," he says, he says quietly. "But that isn't really an option for me right now."  
I watch as he goes back to his book, saying nothing more. He is stuck. He made a choice that has made him unhappy, even if it was likely to do so. Yet unlike most of his peers, he is not complaining or whining or bursting out or bitter or angry about his choice. He is hurting and choosing to suffer in silence. WHAT IS HE THINKING!?  
"Did I offend you?" I ask.  
He turns away from his book, looking apologetic for allowing me to draw that conclusion.  
"No, no," he says, as though to gentle me, his eyes open, that look of vulnerability to him again, as I saw it that first day in the cafeteria. "I am just frustrated. It's easier when people don't bring it up. So far, you're the first."  
The idea that no one has ever brought this up with him is unbearable. I want to do something for him, to try and make his life better here, when he speaks again.  
"What does it matter to you?"  
There is no animosity in his tone. He really wants to know the answer.  
I sit and think, and realized I have no answer for him. I cannot explain the reason behind my interests without revealing that monster I am. I cannot tell him I am so focused on him because I risk killing him ever moment I am near him. I cannot tell him that I find him so compelling because I cannot know his mind like I know all the others around me; Mickie's seething at my proximity to him, Mrs. Banner's jealously of my intelligence, even Alice, in the hall, there to help me immediately should I need it. No matter what I do or say, ultimately, I can only lie to his rare boy sitting before me. I am a monster. He does not deserve a monster in his life.  
"That's an excellent question," I say, using the last of my air. I do not inhale again until class is over and I am gone.


	3. Chapter 3: The Accident

I let the deer caress fall from my grip, not a single drop landing upon me. I look over at Alice who stands beside me.

"You don't need to hunt every single night," she says, smiling at me. "It isn't as though you are going to take a snap at him if you are the least bit thirsty. You can learn to contain yourself."

"You should tell Jasper that," I say, not entirely snidely.

She frowns at me, _You know I won't. He works really hard. I am not going to make this harder for him than it is already._

"It might be easier in the long run," I say.

Her smile twists, _Time moves forward. Just because I know what might happen next doesn't mean that I can make something happen when it isn't ready to. Jasper will figure it out. I trust him to make his own decisions and learn at his own pace. I am not going to force him if he isn't ready._

Something about what she said rang true to me, but I didn't have time to think it all the way through now. We turn and run for home, preparing for school, and to me, that meant thinking about Ben.

I had been thinking a long time about what to do for him. He is unhappy, and I want to help him. I had come up with a list, a number of private schools, in California, pretty equidistant between his mother's and his father's homes. They had on-campus dorms, accepted mid-year transfers, would take Juniors, and had scholarship programs. By scholarship programs, I mean that they would take a student tuition free, along with a large donation to the school, without informing the student. Katherine was willing to make the donation for me, since the school would be unlikely to accept the money from a minor.

As I redress and meet my siblings at the car, I start forming a plan. I will talk to Ben about his situation, saying that I was curious if he knew about private schools in the area who had better programs than Forks. I start forming answers in my head for potential questions. No, I do not go to a private school because I want to be close with my family, and they with me. No, there are not any in the area who accept students this late in high school, but I can check and see if there are others he might like. I would also suggest a school in a warmer climate and ask if it was alright if I looked there. I was not going to pressure him, stating that I was just going to see what his options were, and since I had done the research before, I knew how to look.

As I drive, careful of the ice that has frozen in the night, I glance at Alice. She could help with this; I could easily pick her brain for the right way to bring it up, the right answers, the best way to help him choose leaving. But I do not. It seems unsporting almost, unfair. Ben has had so many people take his choices away from him. I do not want to be another one of those people. But as I think about it, I find that I do not want him to leave. As beneficial as it would be for him, for me, for him to leave, I do not want him to go. I want him here. I do not want the mystery unsolved, but there is more to it than that. We pull into the parking lot before I can think more on the matter.

I decide to stay and watch him enter the building. I am curious about his patterns and his habits. So I wait for him at the edge of the parking lot, where it is easy to see but not be obviously seen. He pulls into the drive and choose a spot towards the back, away from most cars, but close enough that there are still a few cars between him and the sidewalk. I make special note of this for comparisons to future memories, and watch as he carefully shifts himself from the vehicle, as though cautious. He must be wary of the ice, which would only make sense, given that he is used to warmer climates. He looks over the cars near him, judging, drawing conclusions, and I am fully preparing to cross the parking lot and ask him because I have to know what he is thinking! But then, Alice screams.

 _NO!_

The scream never leaves her mind, but it is entirely warranted. I see what she sees, the van, turning, coming on, crashing forward, colliding with the old truck, right where Ben is standing, crushing him, killing him. My scream echos hers.

I turn back, and hear it now, the screeching of tires. It is happening now. I look, just see him turning, his expression full of fear and shock and dismay, but then he sees me, and he relaxes.

I feel my own face relax into blankness. He does not look scared. He concedes, he relents to his own death. But looking at me, he looks happy, content, almost as though looking upon my face is worth the oncoming painful death.

I am moving before I am aware that I have made the decision. I am moving at the top range of my speed, so fast that I need to be careful or I will damage or destabilize the earth beneath me. I am nearing him and must slow down, or I risk killing him myself. I slip down, using the ice to maintain my speed, but slide under the cars between me and him, using their mass by gripping the undercarriage of each as I go, shifting them slightly but slowing myself to a speed that isn't so lethal.

Then, I am there. I push just past him, using the ground and his weight to slow me even more. We pivot, spinning around him, losing the last of my speed, and I strike the pavement, taking as much of his momentum into me as I can, trying to slow him from hitting too hard. I manage as much as I can, but still, the whiplash carries his body downward. I hold him to me, protecting him as much as I can, but his head is going to strike the asphalt over my shoulder and there is nothing I can do without risking more bodily harm to him.

His forehead hits, and I damn the silence of his mind, unable to know how injured he is, too focused on other things to check on him. I dance in and out of every mind in the area, especially those of my siblings, and see, calculate and realized that I was wrong. I had planned to move him as little as possible, not wanting to risk hurting him by dragging him out of the vans trajectory. However, pulling him down and having the van pass over us is not a good alternative. I can see that the clearance is not nearly as wide as I would have liked. I roll our bodies, careful not to impact his head further. I place myself between him and the van just as it begins passing over us. I feel it collide with the back of my head, my hair whipping, doing no damage whatever to me. The van strikes the truck, just as I knew it would, loses the last of its momentum, and settles.

He is alive. But he is hurt, and I don't know how badly. I could have easily done unintentional damage to his neck or his back, aside from his head. I am thrilled that he isn't bleeding. I quickly brace his neck and body in a single stabilizing hold, on hand on the back of his head and along his spine, the other, on his cheeks, aligning in the front. I move him out from under the van to the closest side, waiting for paramedics. And once I have nothing left to do, I realize that I am frantic with worrying for his well-being.

"Ben," I whisper, hoping he is conscious, but then what I have done has caught up with me. I just acted, without thinking, impossibly. He knew where I had been standing, and even if he hadn't, how many other people could have seen what I had done. I have just risked my entire family, and now, I am praying that he is unconscious. And no, not because I want to protect my family; I do not want him to turn away from me.

"Ben," I whisper again, needing to know, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he says, his voice obscured by my hands. He sounds calm and worse, completely coherent. I shift my position so I can look into his face. He head is swollen, but his eyes are clear, his pupils even and responsive. He was aware the whole time. He has witnessed everything.

"What happened?" he inquires, sounding a bit bewildered.

"There was an accident," I reply. I realize that I might be able to convince him, be able to play upon his confused state. Humans don't want to believe the impossible is real.

He attempts to move. He is unsuccessful. He will not be able to move unless I let him.

"I'm fine," he says dismissively. "Just hit my head, and not all that hard. Let me up."

No. No no no. If his injury is superficial, there will be no way to denounce what he witnessed if he decides to talk. Will he talk? I cannot think about that right now. Focus. I must play up the injury. I am quite sure he will not like that.

"You could be worse of than you think," I begin. "You need a hospital, x-rays-"

"No!" he cries, trying almost wildly to move. I have to fight not to smile and also not to let him injure himself against my grip. After a moment, he lies still, his eyes flickering, thinking.

"How did you do that?" he asks. He saw. He knows.

What can I do? Right now, I should be forming avenues of strategy, working up methods for protecting myself, my family, working towards discrediting him, something, anything, but I cannot. All I can do is sit back, horrified. He knows. He knows that I am not human.

"Are you alright?" calls Mr. Goff from the rear of the van.

"I'm fine," we both speak at once, which might have made me laugh. I momentarily despair that I cannot take joy in him, in that he is well, in that he makes me want to smile. He knows, and that all will go away.

"He hit his head," I state, clinically. "I have in inline stabilization. We need two ambulances and someone needs to check if Taylor is conscious. If she is, keep her still if at all possible."

I can hear Taylor's thoughts. If they are any indication, she has no serious head injury. I can hear her heart and her breathing. She is conscious, but I must keep up the charade. I can smell her blood, but not enough to worry that she might bleed out. Barring any internal injury that I cannot sense from here, she should be absolutely fine. Him, on the other hand...

"How did you do that?" he inquires again, his voice low, as though not wanting others to overhear. He... he does not want to inform others? He might be silent about what he has seen, what he knows. But he knows!

Taylor moves from the driver's seat to the curb nearby. A student and a teacher help her, but she needs little help. She sits, mostly in shock, while a group of male students and several teachers shift the van back away from us, making just enough room for a stretcher. The ambulance arrives, and they assess Taylor and find her to be at less risk than Ben. The second ambulance will be arriving shortly, so they attend him.

I assist the paramedics, helping them to attach a brace around his neck and help guide him onto the stretcher. Everyone is watching, seeing him, noting how serious his injuries appear. He sighs and huffs the entire time, and I am glad I can do this much at least to help protect my family.

The police chief arrives. I had never been this close to her before, and as I look her over, I am amazed. Her mind, while not nearly a silence as her son's, is muted. Rather than the ever changing flow, the melody that is the minds of most humans, her's is like a single note, a unified tone, that can change and shift, but only conveys the one notion, the one thought, the single, simple article. And right now, she positively blares concern.

"Benny?" she asks, not realizing until now that the pedestrian involved in this collision is her son.

Ben moans, but unlike the paramedic, I can tell it is in dismay and not pain.

"Benjamin?" she asks, as though needing to verify. Once she is aware that he is okay, she becomes a police officer again.

"What happened?" she inquires in a no nonsense tone of the paramedic.

"Car accident," he replies in kind. "Nothing life threatening as far as we can tell. Hit his head. Taking him to the hospital now."

"I'm fine, mom," Ben says, embarrassed and downplaying all the while. "This is completely ridiculous and unnecessary."

I slip into the ambulance in front of them, taking a seat towards the cab. I want to be helping them, ensuring that everything is done correctly, but I have done enough, more than a high school should be able to do, already. They move the stretcher inside, and in a few moments, everyone is in, and we are on the move. He sighs, and after a moment, he looks up towards me.

"Were you hurt at all?" he asks.

"Not a scratch," I say.

The trip is short, but it feels like the span of a long afternoon before we arrive. They wheel him into emergency, and I do a brief search and find my mother, moving as quickly as I can to her without drawing attention to myself.

She is with a patient, but as I approach, she recognizes my step.

 _Edwina?_ she thinks, continuing with her patient without a break. Standing outside of the room, I whisper the whole event in a matter of seconds, so low that she can hear me, so quick no one else could understand even if they could.

She finishes with her patient as though I was not there, her thoughts comforting me the whole time.

 _Of course, you couldn't have let him be harmed,_ she thinks to me. _There was no other choice. The others will realize that._

I listen closely, and can just make out Rory on the edge of my mental awareness. His irate insults are so loud that I can almost hear them clearly.

She walks out and puts an arm around me.

"I will sort this out," she says, her thoughts already on looking after Ben and Taylor. "I am off my shift in a couple of hours, then I will be home and we can all discuss this."

I listen quietly from the hall as Katherine enters and looks after Ben.

 _He is fine,_ she thinks. _Likely not even a concussion. He will be alright. You didn't hurt him._

Something inside me eases, something I did not realize I was holding onto. I was afraid that I had hurt him, that on top of all that had been done, my acts had made things worse. It is hard to believe that I had done anything right.

I step into the room and look at him. He is sitting in his emergency hospital bed, holding a prescription slip. I look over him, searching for something I know not what. His hair is mussed, his expression grave, but as he turns and spies me over here, the momentary recognition is tinged with just the barest hint of something, relief maybe.

I gesture to him to join me, and he gets up carefully, wobbles, and makes his way to me as quickly as he can without hurrying.

"How's your head?" I ask, as much for something to say as anything.

"Can we talk?" he asks me, his tone insistent yet pleading as well.

I cannot allow this. I cannot confirm anything. If anything, I must deny him. I must lie. But in spite of everything, in spite knowing what I must do, much like suggesting a private school for him in California was this morning, I really do not want to, for reasons I do not fully understand or can sort out at this moment.

"About what?" I ask, feeling defensive for the lies I know that I must tell.

He glances at Debra, one of the emergency nurses, who is restocking a crash cart.

Understanding floods me. He is trying to keep my secret. With everything that has happened, he understands that what he has witnessed is something I want out of the public eye. He is protecting me, or at the very least, has cared enough to know what I want and is willing to go along with it. The notion that I must lie to him now is nearly unbearable.

I lead him into an empty hall where we will not be overheard. No one is the area.

"What?" I ask, keeping my tone even. Inside I want to hiss, to cry out, to curse myself and what I am, nearly sick with the travesty of what I must do.

"I want to know what happened," he says simply.

He wants to know what I am, how I did what I did. I cannot tell him.

"You know what happened," I say, almost resentfully.

"You crossed the entire parking lot before the van got to me," he says, casting his gaze around. "You pulled me out of the way. You helped me. And I'm grateful, but I'm just trying to understand. What you did was... It shouldn't be possible."

Confirmation crashes down into me. Of course, he missed nothing. He never misses anything. I thought I what I felt before was unbearable, but this...

"I was standing beside you," I say perfectly, with every tell humans use to indicate truth. "You must be confused. You hit your head."

"No," he denies, sounding hurt. "I know what happened. Don't just blow me off. Please."

Pain, undeniable and inexorable pain surges through me, from nowhere. The thought, the very idea that I might be hurting him is suddenly intolerable. But I have no choice. I still my features, locking down every muscle in my face. I focus everything on complete control.

"I was standing with you," I intone, making my voice as convincing as I know how to be. "We slipped on the ice and rolled under the van. You hit your head, and I was very lucky. That is what happened."

He looks incredulous, "You want me to lie for you? Without any-"

"That is what happened," I say with finality, not giving a single inch. I feel more monstrous than I did the day I nearly killed him as I add what I know I must, "Even if you tell anyone what you think you saw, no one would believe you. You hit your head, so why bother?"

Stunned disbelief blooms on his face before it melts into a look of tremulous anguish. Tears start to well in his eyes. What?

"I just want the truth," he says, his words a rough whisper, childlike. "I wasn't going to tell anyone."

His face floods with color and heat, his breath catches. He turns and all but flees, his stifled cry and sniff still immaculate even though he has turned to corner. As soon as he is out of earshot, I collapse to the floor. I take one microsecond to make sure no one will witness me, and I take the time to feel everything. I writhe on the floor, let the fierce shame and the rapturous pain consume me. I stay there for longer than is wise, so long that I am almost seen, then I leave. I find the gaps in the collective perspective, places where people will not see me, and slip far enough out from the populace that I can speed all the way home.

Alice is waiting for me on the front steps. Immediately, she hugs me, lifting me off my feet with the ferocity of her embrace, which, considering what she lacks in size, amuses me to no end when I am less melancholy. This time, I just hold steadily to her.

"Suggestions?" I ask low, knowing no one is close enough to hear.

 _I would park your car somewhere out of town. Maybe out of state._

I wince, "He's that mad?"

 _No one is exactly thrilled. I think Mom and Dad and I are the only ones who understand right now. This will take finesse. I will do what I can, but you will have to do the rest._

I try to see what she means, but she focuses her whole mind on the vagaries of the future, the motes of fate and time that have no definitive stability yet, making it impossible for even her to see much of anything at all.

I reach out with my mind and find Rory where he should be, under a car. Emily is there beside him, so it would hard to find a more beneficial setting for him. If he is not calm by the time Katherine gets home, he will never be calm again. Jasper is nowhere to be perceived. No doubt he will have asked Alice when the meeting will begin and will return then. Emanuel is in his office, working hard, but I can tell from his mind that he is purposefully preparing himself for the meeting and I know he would prefer not to be disturbed, even if he would never say so.

So, to pass the time, and in an attempt to re-balance any karmic fates, I decide to do the most selfless thing that I can for the greatest return in happiness that is not my own, that I know of. When Alice sees, she squeals incomprehensibly, and takes my hand, nearly dragging me upstairs in her haste. She precedes to do my hair.

I am her only sister who will let her do this. Her own hair is rather short, making it hard to do much with, and Emily's hair has only two states; tied back or not tied back. Katherine has allowed Alice to do her hair a time or two, but only for particularly special occasions. I would not say that I enjoy it. While the attention is nice and the feel of my hair being made much of is rather pleasant and the aesthetics of having pretty hair is enjoyable, I really only do this for Alice. Mostly.

But the time Alice is done, most of my hair is in a decorative Chignon with the rest in a series of three asymmetrical tresses. By Alice's standards, it is very subdued, framing my face and giving me slightly vulnerable, girlish look, leaving my neck bare. I would almost consider wearing this to school. I smile genuinely, and Alice grins in return.

Katherine pulls up and as soon as the car is parked, as if on cue, everyone populates the dining room. Katherine takes the head of the table, Emanuel on her right, me on her left. Alice stands behind my chair, and Jasper leans against the wall behind Emanuel, halfway down the table. Rory takes the opposite head of the table, Emily on his left.

"I'm not moving again," says Rory. "We haven't even been here two years. Either we will start at our current ages and have to move that much sooner, or we will have to start all over again. This is unacceptable."

At least he is calm.

"I don't believe he is going to be a problem," I say without inflection.

"But you can't know that," says Rory, "because you can't read his mind!"

"He has had a head injury," says Katherine. "Even if he decides to tell what happened, who would believe him? He knows nothing definitively about what we are. We have had worse outings than this with no repercussions."

"Wrong," say Rory. "We have never encountered someone who she couldn't read. We have no idea how he will react. He may snap and talk to the press or start trying to investigate us or any number of things. He could bring the Volturi down on us! There is only one solution."

I read his thoughts.

"NO!" I spit out between clenched teeth, sounding madder than him.

He shrugs, sitting back in his chair, "Just having you around him risked his life. You could have easily slipped up, and if you had, he would be just as dead. What I am suggesting is no worse than you just being around him on a bad roll of the dice, so what is the big deal?"

"Rory might be jumping to an extreme," says Emily softly, taking his hand, "but he isn't wrong. We need to be sure that he isn't going to talk, and we need to do whatever it takes to stop him."

"I can't agree to that," I say. "I won't go along with slaughtering an innocent."

"Edwina is right," says Katherine. "I choose to live the way I do because I believe in living better than the rest of our kind, and the rest of us have agreed to it. That standard should not be so easily tossed aside for our own convenience. I cannot condone the death of a child to ease our existence. All life is precious."

It is then that I caught what is going on in Jasper's mind. I had been focused on Rory and the rest, but now, I see it, the resolve, the finality. Rory has been dissuaded, but Jasper will not be. To him, Alice is at risk, and a single human life is nothing to her safety.

I look to Alice, who sees him, leaving here directly after the meeting is done. He finds the boy alone in his room, using infinite care and control not to cause him to bleed, and makes it look like he might have passed out, catching his head on the corner of his desk just the exactly wrong way. He would be dead with no suspicion at all cast upon us.

But then, the vision changes, and I am there. Jasper is pulled backward as he is about to reach Ben, and we fight, nearly destroying the house. But then it changes again, and we are struggling in the yard outside the house, and I am countering the attacks that he is using with a degree of foresight. Fast and fast, the vision changes, coming close and close to the house, with me more and more forewarned of his attacks by my witness of Alice's visions, until I am leaping across the table, seconds from now, taking him aware this very moment.

 _Stop it!_ Alice cries in her mind, and I feel a little ashamed for using her as I have. But I feel no less resolved. I will not let him kill Ben.

Katherine knows us too well not to read the room at large.

"Jasper," she says, and we all turn towards him.

"I won't risk Alice," he says. "I have not been a part of this family as long as you all have, and I have nothing against your life choices, but when it comes to Alice, there is no such things as acceptable risk."

Alice came out from behind my chair, standing directly across the table from Jasper.

"Jazz, you're sweet," she says, "but I don't need you to protect me. Besides, there is something much bigger going on here."

He narrowed his eyes at her, "What do you mean?"

"I am not entirely sure yet," she says. She turns to me, look directly into my face.

"Focus," she says, "and tell me; why did you save Ben?"

I take a deep breath and do as she asks. I focus. I think back. I sort through my own thoughts, my recall, and try to find the answer. As I stand there, in the parking lot, in my memory, I watch as he is about to be run down. I ask myself what my strongest draws to Ben are. First, his blood; it is true, if he is killed here, his blood will likely drive me into a frenzy, which should be avoided, but I hadn't considered that at the time. Second, his mind; the mystery of his mind would not be solved if he died, but my little compulsion, as strong as it may be, is not enough to convince me to risk my entire family for. That is when a huge piece suddenly clicked into place. I risked my family for him. I was willing to risk every single person that I loved to ensure that he would not die. I looked back, to that last moment, me screaming _No!_ in my own head, pushing past the word, into the deeper portions of my mind, finding the thoughts, quiet, but unbelievably strong; _No. Not him. Not the boy that I-_

Alice gasps. It is almost violent, as though she was struck an almighty blow. She is of course caught by Jasper before she touches the floor.

"Lacy," he whispers, "What is it?"

And to all our dismay, she laughs.

"NO!" I scream, catching her thoughts. "NO! NO! NO!"

I try to run, but Emanuel catches me, holding me to his chest, gingerly but firm on the outskirts of his embrace.

"No," I whisper. "No, not him. Please! Please, no!"

"What is it?" hisses Jasper.

The images flash through her mind. Ben, with a casual arm slung around Alice's shoulders, laughing, smiling. Emily, needling him playfully, busting his proverbial chops. Katherine and Emanuel, standing to either side, embracing him like a son. And me, holding him to me, him trying to lift me to him, but staggering against a wall trying to do so, my smile despite my lips on his, my fingers in his hair, his warmth on me-

"No!" I say again, refusing the final one, the impossible imagine, the strongest and truest I have ever seen, the dichotomous one that Alice herself thinks is inevitable.

"There are only two possibilities now," Alice says. "It all depends on how strong she is."

"Who?" asks Rory.

Alice looks at me, and I consent.

"It is about even now," she says. "As close to fifty as I think it can be. Either his blood will be too much for her and he will die, but if it isn't, if she can refrain, if she can find it in herself to spare him, he will become one of us."

Shock expands out from her, through the others, all except Emanuel, who's mind is suddenly alive with joy for me. He alone knows what his means, already.

"Why?" asks Emily. "Why will he?"

"She loves him," says Alice.

"I do not!" I exclaim. "I can't! I won't! I will not damn him! He is too-!"

I cannot be contained any longer. I slip from Emanuel and he does not hold me back. I run out the back, digging furrows in the ground as I run. In seconds, I am high in the mountains. I don't care for secrecy or hiding. I scream out my frustration and my anger and the unfairness of it all. I shift boulders, strip needles from trees, loose rock slides, and brush away snow. I don't know how long I am there. After my bout of rage passes, I find myself sitting at the edge of a cliff at sunset, my knees drawn up to my head, my arms crossed about them.

I know that what I did was irrational, but I do not care. It is not possible. I hardly know Ben, but already, I can tell, he is a decent human being. He is smart, humble, observant, insightful, gracious. He hates being the center of attention, and he is so very charming when he is defensive. He is earnest about himself and wears his heart on his sleeve, especially when he thinks he is not. He is brave and won't trip all over himself over a pretty face. And, unlike every other human I know, he somehow can and does treat my like an equal., like a person...

And for all that, I might kill him. And if I don't kill him, he will be damned. Either way, I could not possibly love him. If I did, I would not survive either.


	4. Chapter 4: Evasions

I spend the next several weeks burning. In some ways, I think that literal burning would be preferable to the kind I am enduring. At least if I was literally burning, it would eventually stop. This must be endless. If it was not endless, that would mean that I had failed.

It became the primary drive in my existence, my so called life, to keep Benjamin Hawkins mortal and alive. To do so, I simply had to do nothing. I could not speak to him, look at him, acknowledge him in any way. I had to simply to ignore his very existence until the day that he died of natural causes.

The night before that first day, I considered fleeing. I was convinced that if I left, he would be with me even more so than he had when I ran before. It took me the whole night to convince myself that it would not work. Or, rather, it took the whole night to convince myself that I was staying for the right reasons.

That first day, I was almost unable to do it. Never once did I look at him with my own eyes, but I could not force myself to stay away from the minds around him. He was true to me, despite my wretchedness, telling everyone the story I had passed on to him.

No. I am not being fair. He lied. He lied to everyone, because I had asked, and because he was an infinitely better person than I, which is not hard; I am not one.

In Biology, he greeted me politely, and I almost overturned the table and left, insurmountably outraged with the very idea that I could not ask him why. Why was he doing this? What had he decided? Had he forgiven me, as impossible as that had seemed?

My inflamed throat is the first level of burning I endure. I do not hold my breath around him anymore, yet nor do I breathe as often as I normally would. It becomes a slow searing, a slow motion flash-burn that I believe I deserve. It is my constant reminder, why I am here, why I must never drop my guard around him again. With every single breath, I wall myself away from the very notion that I might kill him, finding any way that I can to deal with the torment, which never goes away.

The next burn comes within days of our reunion in Biology. He never speaks to me or of me again. As soon as the questions die out, he never says my name. I am startled by just how much this hurts me. I am, after all doing the same thing to him, which in and of itself is a torment, but nothing to the feeling of him relinquishing me so completely. It takes everything that I am not to speak with him, not to apologize, not to fall upon my knees and beg his forgiveness, not to tell him everything, not to try to explain just how important it is that I never say anything to him ever again, no matter how I might want to. But even that is nothing when compared the burning desire I have to know what he is thinking, what is going through his mind. I want to know that he is well, that he is happy, even if relatively, and this silence is deafening, maddening.

The next burning I feel is curiosity. If from a distance, without the aid of my own eyes, I watch him, every day, through any eyes and any mind that I can. I become well practiced in finding him, in searching crowds and groups for him, learning about his paths, his habits, his friends, and about him.

His face, which I once thought so plain, so much like any other human's, becomes something entirely new in my eyes. His features are not proportional in the classic aesthetic of beauty, but the disproportions are all inferior or superior to each other, maintaining an overall symmetry that gives his face a depth of appeal, one that does not, ironically, present itself at face value. I discover that he is clumsy, rather abundantly so. After many hours of observation, I start to get the impression that he is commanding his limbs flawlessly, but with a degree of precision and desire that his body is not capable of producing. It is as though he has not learned or somehow refuses to concede the limitations of his own body, insisting that it does more than it is really capable of doing. And, above all things, I see his goodness.

His friends seem to have no idea just how exceptional a gift it is to have him in their presence. He listens to them, even as they prattle on about subjects he very obviously has no interest in, and he joins in, speaking with care and contribution as though his interest is sincere. It is not feigned interest in the vapid sense, but concern for the other's enjoyment. He goes out of his way to invest himself in his friends, offering support and encouragement to those around him, expecting and often receiving nothing in return. While not many do not take notice of these facts, that does not stop others from taking notice of him.

The last burning I feel is jealousy, something that is entirely new to me. Michelle Newton, the shallow and unimaginative and infinitely unworthy Mickie, has developed a little crush. She has fabricated an icon, a facsimile of Ben within her own mind, into which she has poured every idle or meaningless attributed that she falsely believes has is meaningful, and dismissing absolutely everything else about him as unimportant. She then proceeds to use this icon as an excuse to form a completely unwarranted attraction to him, one that could easily have any other boy in the world in its place, her choice of him equal parts arbitrary and convenience. I use her with equal convenience, spending any idle portions of the school day finding every conceivable way to destroy her, in every meaning of the word. I find a particular vindictive delight in the idea of confirming for her what I am, and through a series of well thought out planned events, convenience her that she is spiraling into madness.

The whole painful farce of it all crescendos in a school dance. Nine days before its occurrence, a girls' choice dance is announced, and normally, as it would be cause for celebration since it would be something at breaks up the day to day monotony, I find it nothing but distasteful. Ben is actually a well-considered commodity. A majority of single girls in the junior and senior class at least consider asking him. Nearly half of them talk themselves out of asking, for one reason or another. Another portion of those that don't talk themselves down ask out someone who they expect to say no, who does not. Most of the rest decide not to be the first to ask. But three finally make the decision to ask, Erica Yorkie, Taylor Crowley, and Michelle Newton.

I spend the day trying to find some outlet for my jealousy. Fantasizing does not help much, as satisfying as it may be. I then try to understand exactly why I am so upset. I know that I am jealous, though I do not fully understand why. Naturally, I want to speak to him, to ask him many, many things, so many that I have to regularly refine my list or risk massive redundancies. I want his company, unlimited and freely given, the way he gives of himself to his friends. But I cannot do that, not with what I am, not with what it would cost. For the first time, I truly understand why Rory wishes that he was still human.

Sitting in Biology, I wait for him to arrive. As much as I ignore him, my days now nearly completely revolve around him. It is the worst part of my day sitting beside him, but also the best. The worse because the best chance I have for succinctly watching him is to look upon him through Mickie's eyes. The best because it is the closed I will ever get again to having what I really want.

Today, Mickie's mind is full of asking Ben to the dance. She has no confidence that he will actually say yes, so she is hanging on any excuse she can to continue talking to him while she tries to find the courage to actually ask.

"I'm planning a trip to the beach this weekend," she says, nervousness so thick on her, I am sure that he must notice. "I'm getting together a bunch of friends, do a picnic and everything. Do you want to go?"

"Sure," he replies with a sincere smile, thankful for being asked. "It sounds like fun. I haven't been out there in years."

 _See,_ she thinks to herself. _He likes you! There is nothing to worry about. Just ask. Ask! ASK!_

She continues, as they walk to the desk where I am sitting, "The weather is supposed to be really nice, and I know how much you don't like the cold, so I thought I would ask you and all, which is good that you said yes, because that way you don't have to spend the day at home by yourself. Not that I think you have not life or anything!"

He smiles patiently, giving her a good-natured chuckle.

 _Why did he laugh?!_ she thinks. _Oh god! He thinks that I am a complete idiot! Why am I doing this?! He is going to say no!_

I do not think he will say no, which is what makes this situation all the worse. Of all the girls in this school, he has spent the most time talking to her. Her face is not nearly as symmetrical as his, but close enough that most humans would likely find her subjectively pretty at the very least. At the very least, I'm sure he wouldn't mind escorting her as a friend. The idea of him, in an ill-fitting rental tuxedo, his arm through hers, even purely platonic, twists in me painfully.

 _Just do it!_ she thinks. _Do the Jesse segue!_

"So," she says, her voice trembling, "Jesse asked me today if I was planning to ask anyone to the dance."

"Really," he says, and I can tell that he is pretending that he is surprised, "so did you ask him?"

Her instantaneous despair makes the day just a little easier to bear.

 _He thinks I should ask Jesse? s_ he thinks. _No! He is just being polite! Ask him!_

"No," she stutters over the words, "I was thinking about asking you."

Silence. I look bored on the surface. Inside, I am trying to focus on anything I can, grasping all that I can, trying to make this time between her pathetic non-question and his reply shorter. Finally, one geological epoch later, he says with almost clipped words, "I don't go to dances."

She mentally implodes. I become vindictively satisfied. And he goes on.

"Besides," he says, his words sounding like an excuse, but not so much that she would really notice. "I am planning on a day trip to Seattle that Saturday. I likely won't be back until late."

 _I am sure that he must really want to go with me,_ she thinks. _He just has plans. But maybe he will be willing to change them or come home early. It's a_ dance _, for crying out loud!_

He looks unsure for a moment, then adds, with subtle emphasis, "Maybe you should ask Jesse. Doesn't it seem like he might want to go with you? I mean, why else would he ask if you had asked anyone yet?"

She drops into an emotional mess of despair and self-abuse, then walks dejectedly away with but a mumbled reply that I can't even make out.

No one is looking at Ben. I can't see his face, and I desperately want to. He told her no. Now that she isn't looking, his emotions, some of what he will be thinking, will be on his face, and no one is looking to let me know.

I am looking at him. His eyes are far away, forming plans maybe, something trivial, but with an undercurrent of contentment. He is thinking of an enjoyable pastime maybe. He gives himself a little smile, as though laughing at a private joke, and I want to be in on the joke. I want to talk to him, and I want him to talk to me. I want everything to be as it was. But no. There was only a day in which we were friends, though I do not know if I could stand for only that day anymore.

He is looking back at me. So lost in him was I, I did not see when he turned to me. He is looking right back down into me. His eyes are the most beautiful sight I have ever gazed upon. I never knew something brown could be so radiant, so warm, so full of life.

But then, it went away. I see Alice's vision interposed with his face, see his eyes blaze like scarlet death. I see his features shift to that of a monster's. I see him as the fiend I will cast him down to be. And, I see him dead, his eyes lifeless, empty, void, the boy who is so vital, in every sense of the word, broken, destroyed by my hand.

His face twists in dissatisfaction, and for a moment I am drawn in by the idea that he has turned my gift against me and is reading my mind. But then Mrs. Banner asks me a question, and I pick the answer out of her mind, disappointed almost as much as I am when I turn back and see that he has turned away from me.

It hurts. I want so badly to speak to him. I should explain, just tell him what I can to make this okay, to put some closure upon this, to say goodbye, if I can.

The bell rings, and he turns his full attention on packing his books quickly, decidedly keeping his eyes from coming anywhere close to me.

"Ben," I say before I can stop myself, before I can come up with some way to make my words more appealing, more agreeable. But I just want to speak, to tell him the truth, as best as I can.

He stops and looks at me, his face and words harsh, hurt, "What?"

His pain rips through me, hotter than any burning I have felt so far, completely deserved and entirely my doing. Maybe telling him will ease his pain. Maybe I should leave Fork and not return for at least a hundred years.

I do what I can to keep the pain off my face. I keep my tone even, smooth, passionless.

"We shouldn't be friends," I say. "It isn't fair to you. It isn't right."

He pushes his books into a tighter stack, settling them together, and when he speaks, his tone is sharp, the sharpest I have ever heard it, biting and agonizingly indifferent.

"Whatever you say," he says.

What does that mean? I am trying to do the right thing, tell him why we shouldn't interact anymore, why this is the right thing to do. Why is he so angry?

"Meaning?" I ask, for want of something better to inquire.

He grips his books tightly, sighing, as though deciding something.

"You have made your position in this situation more than clear," he says, the hurt now gone from his voice, replaced by direct and simple truth. "You don't trust me. You don't trust me with the truth, and you don't care enough to be honest with me. Justify it however you want; in the end, you're just a coward."

He looks directly into my face as the emotions fight for control; anger at him for being right, fear that he might just see completely through me and impossibly know me better than I know myself, disgust at myself for thinking that in a million years I could fool myself into thinking that I could do this, pain that I might not have a way out of this without risking my sanity, sadness for the hurt I had caused him and would continue causing him one way or another if I did not leave immediately, regret that I could not just be what I wanted to be. After I had cycled through these emotions repeatedly, I find the will to wipe my face clean, holding on to one single fact maintain my expression.

"You have no idea what you are talking about," I say.

He retrieves his books, "I might... if you actually told me."

He wants the truth. No; he wanted much more than that. With this in mind, I go back over everything he did since the accident. He told everyone what I had asked, what I had insisted he tell them, what I had insisted beyond his own recollection was the truth. And he had done so without explanation, without a single encouragement or word from me since the hospital. He had done what I had seen him do with every single one of his friends since that day; he had cared more for what I wanted, about my own peace of mind, about me, than what he wanted, than himself. He had been hoping that if I saw what he had done, saw that he trusted me, that I might choose to trust him back. And I had not. I had been so self-involved, so concerned with myself, with what I was afraid I might do to him, I had not cared enough to see that I was still hurting him. He is right; I am a coward.

He walks out. I follow, silently. I cannot let it go at that. I just cannot. I have to try and make it right. He arrives at his locker, and as he tries to open it, shifting his books around, he overcompensates tilting them. He over corrects, losing one book one way and then the rest the other. He just stops trying and watches with frustrated futility as they tumble to the ground. I do not laugh aloud and give away my presence, but it is a near thing. He turns his gaze to the ceiling, as though gathering resolve. While he does, I moved forward, gather up the books and hold them beside him.

For once, he notices nothing. Bending to pick them up, he becomes confused, then notices me and nearly collide with a student behind him as he cries out in surprise and leaps back from me. He does not say anything, just looking at me, as though trying to understand why I am here.

"That was rude of me," I say, proffering the books. "But I am serious when I say that we shouldn't be friends. It would be better for you, in the long run."

"Edwina," he says, his exasperation mattering little to me. He said my name, and he said it exactly right. The right emphasis, the right stresses, the right pronunciation, all of it. Other than my family, no one else in this school had ever done that. I had quit caring. The thrill that rose through me was almost a balm, and I cursed myself that I wanted him to say it to me again, just so.

"It's my life," he continues. "Don't make my decisions for me."

What was he thinking?! What was he saying!? He wants to be friends?

I seriously consider his words, trying to see this from his perspective, and I realize that he does not feel as though he has been given a choice. And that is right, he has not. From his perspective, I must look as though I simply do not trust him. He has no idea what is actually going on. He wants the right to make his own decision. But this is not his choice; it is mine. I will not risk killing him. When it comes to him, there is no such thing as acceptable risk.

"Fair enough," I say, nodding and handing him his books. "But don't try to make mine for me either."

His face falls, his voice rough with emotion that he tries to hide, "Okay. Fair enough."

He takes his book from my hand, and I am careful not to touch his. He slips them into his locker and turns and walks away.

All throughout Spanish, my mind is not at all on class. I am tracing the effects that the gossip has had. Erica and Taylor have both heard of Mickie's woes by the end of the period, though not from her herself. They have put their own plans in motion. I note these facts mechanically, without conviction or opinion, while my mind sorts through my conversation with Ben.

He trusts me; whether in some part or full, he is willing to comport himself to my standards of what I believe to be right, rather than his own. This is a rare quality, even among vampires, and is almost never present without some form of justification, such as a long period of understanding or a great deal of affection. It is even rarer among humans, and in someone so young, it is nigh impossible. And, what is more, he has chosen to trust me.

I catch Alice's quiet laugh, even from across the school. I find her thoughts and am dismayed. This morning, her vision for Ben was blurred into obscurity. I had set myself squarely on a path of denial and had removed myself from his life as much as I seemed capable of, onto the point his future was not the duel damnation or death it had been. Now, in the course of our short discourse, it is back.

I am trapped. He is too compelling for his own good! I know what it could mean if I do not leave him alone, and it is not a good enough justification to stay me from him. Am I so selfish, that I would risk him, just so that I could be near to him?! Is he really worth so much, I would rather him dead or eternally damned than part with him!?

Class ends, and I make a decision. I want to see what happens with Erica and Taylor. I was wrong before. I thought that he would agree to the dance with Mickie, but he had not. But it could be argued that he had only done so for the sake of his friend. What if there is one out there, one that he would say yes to? I must know. I do not fully understand why yet, but I must know.

I find Ben, walking out of Gym, and easy thing to do now what I have had weeks of practice finding him in the minds of others. I find Erica and calculate their likely paths and their speeds and move to the parking lot, to a spot that is not far from them, but still not obvious to humans that I would be eavesdropping.

He looks rather unhappy as he walks out of the school, his steps scuffing the sidewalk, his eyes not raising from the ground before his feet. Erica approaches him, and I listen intently.

I feel a little sorry for Erica. While Mickie is completely deplorable, Erica is so terrified by the whole situation that her mind is little more than a jumbled mess of concern and with just barely enough space around the fear and the discomfort to function.

"Ben," she all but squeaks out, trembling so violently that even a human might notice at a distance.

His expression improves, becomes marginally pleasant, "Hi Erica. What's up?"

I feel suddenly as relatively distressed as she does, but for entirely different reasons. He might say yes. He might.

"I was wondering," she says, her mutterings words drawing off as her mind filled with equally inscrutable fear.

"Wondering?" he asks, and from his features, I can tell he truly has no idea what is coming. "Wondering what?"

"Did you want to," she says, "you know, go to the... uh... dance? With me? Maybe?"

Any pleasantries leave him. He does not look mean or rude but does look rather neutral.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I won't be in town that day."

Her fear collapses into a pool of dejection and depression.

"Oh," she says, able to keep herself from inadvertently revealing just how emotional she was. "Uh... okay then. Sorry to bug you."

I almost feel sorry for her as she turns and flees. As I am watching her, Ben turns, as though hoping to find something to distract himself from his own discomfort, and finds me. He becomes deeply and overtly annoyed, which, for some reason, I like.

"Can I help you?" he asks, as though trying to cull me into leaving. Again, this is amusing and satisfying. I want to tease him, to draw out this annoyance, to invoke his emotions. It is as enjoyable and is somehow as telling as his words. I settle for raising my eyebrows.

"Now who's being rude," I say. "I was just standing here."

"Stand somewhere else," he bites. He turns to walk away.

I scan the area. Taylor is hurrying to catch up. She wants to ask him too. I want her to too. I enjoy it when he says no to these girls, but even if he should say yes to her, which I doubt now that he will, I would like to know that. I need to stall him.

"You should apologize," I say. He is normally so polite.

He stops, turning to look at me as though I just said the most obtuse comment in existence.

"What?" he asked, as though my words made no sense whatsoever.

"When you are rude, you should apologize," I say, as though I am speaking to a child. No irony there...

"You want me to apologize?" he asks skeptically, as though not sure whether I am being insulting or not.

"No," I say, which is true, though I did imply as much. I want him to be more annoyed, and choose my words carefully.

"I said you should apologize," I clarify. "I don't think you will, though. I think you will just carry one being rude."

It works! He glares at me as though I just insulted his truck and impugned his honor.

"Well then," he seethes, "you're right!"

I try very hard not to laugh loud enough for him to hear me. He stalks away, and I am not sure if I could slow him down without restraining him. I think through my options, calculate how long it should take for Taylor to get here, then decide I have no choice. I get in the car and pull out, stopping behind his truck and wait for my siblings. I can see in his mirrors that he cannot tell that it is me; he is not nearly annoyed enough.

Taylor finally makes it. She spots his truck and sees that he is behind the wheel. She runs over and knocks on the window. He looks up and she smiles. He rolls down his window, which takes some finagling.

"Hey," he says, unhappily.

"Hey," she says, quite happily. "I'm glad I caught you."

His expression is unaware, again! Does he really just not know, not understand? How can he be so oblivious? He is charming and endearing and fun and...

"Okay," he says, still not understanding. "What can I do for you?"

He will not say yes. Will he? My siblings finally make it to my car. They slip in and get settled.

"I was wondering if you wanted to go to the dance with me," she says, very invitingly.

I watch through her eyes as he goes still, so still that for a moment, he reminds me of a vampire, then I see him try to calm the complete anger and frustration that is welling up in him. After a few seconds, he finally speaks.

"I am going..." he says with clenched teeth, pausing to breathe, "to be out of town."

"I heard that is what you said to Mickie," she says nonchalantly. "But it sounded like you were just letting her down easy."

He looks as though he has lost all ability to tamp down his frustration. The expression is hilarious.

"No... I wasn't," he almost can't get out. "I'm not... going."

I am bucking in my seat, trying not to shift the car in my laughter. My siblings are questioning my sanity.

"That's cool," she says unperturbed, maintaining her smile. "There's still prom anyway."

She is thinking of her plan, her incredibly manipulative and underhanded way she is going to lie and spread rumors in hopes that he will just go with her to ease the whole situation. She will come clean and confess before the event itself, tell him how it was all just a big misunderstand, that she knew what she had done was wrong, that once she had started she go scared how people would react if she told them the truth, that she was sorry and that she understood if he never wanted to speak to her again, that she just wanted to go with him to prom more than anything in the world, and she never meant to hurt him.

Her plan is the funniest thing I had heard in a long time, mostly because I can image his face when he would find out what had happened. Then I see his face, through her eyes, at her mention of prom, and it is even funnier than anything I could have imagined.

I manage not to break the interior of the car, but just barely. Alice is the only one who is amused. Rory just thinks I am an idiot, Emily thinks I am losing it, and Jasper is wondering how long it will be until I kill him. But nothing can touch my mood, for he is so funny.

He turns and looks in his rearview, and I can't help but smile. But after the barest hint of a moment, I look again and look closer. His expression is no longer funny to me. He is upset, close to tears. His discomfort, as amusing and put on as it has appeared, an attempt to drive off his unwanted admirers, is now turned to genuine and heartrending unhappiness. He is hurting and I cannot but feel for him. Had I the ability, I would be crying his tears with him.

His eyes close, a grounding gesture. I drive off before his eyes open.

 _It's back on,_ Alice thinks, the duel images in her mind again, strong as ever.

I drive and say nothing.

I am starting to understand just how trapped I am. I believed that it was a failing, a weakness that would keep me from leaving Ben, that the forces that drew me to him were akin to my benign compulsion to want to know his mind or the sinister thirst for his blood. It never really occurred to me that the draw might be something altogether more dangerous; ardent and innocent desire.

I want Ben. I want to be near to him and talk to him, not simply to know his mind and to sate my curiosity. I want to be with him because he is unique and genuine and thoughtful and considerate and cute and enjoyable and kind and accepting and forthright and earnest and true.

And, for all that, I am still so very selfish. Selfish because I would let that want unbalance it all, would willingly risk his life or his soul so that I might be close to him, that I might have what I want. I could never deserve to stand beside the likes of Benjamin Hawkins, because he would risk his life to give me what I wanted, and I would risk his life so that I could have it. I am a monster, after all.

As soon as we are home, the others go about doing whatever they are in the mood to do. I move to the living room, looking out the large glass windows. Before I can put much thought behind it, I am sitting at the piano. Alice pauses at her computer set up where she works on her fashion pieces. Rory actually stops flipping channels, the television already so quite that no human ears could hear it. Emanuel stills in his office, putting down the blue print he was looking at, his mind going silent. I lift the fallboard and play a quick ascending chromatic scale.

I love the piano. It is inherently dissonant, impossible to truly tune. Even with our fine motor skills and ears, we can only ever get it equally and just barely out of tune throughout. Emanuel tunes it every day, keeping it as close to perfect as it can possibly be, but it will never quite making it there. And yet, there is such beauty in that imperfection, such complexity. It is a living metaphor of life, and the one of the few things that has brought me any real joy in this world.

But, not this time. I do not want joy. I want expression, the expulsion of what I am feeling, release. And what I am feeling is not joy. It is not something simple words can portrait. It is why I need to play.

I begin. It starts simple enough, a very methodical piece, a tad monotonous, with a few flairs and flourishes, but with a single, expected and unchanging structure. But then, I change one tiny element, add a single extraneous note to each measure, making them oblong units within the song that push into each successive measure, only rarely matching up as musical structure would normally dictate, always keeping you off footed, wanting to return to a familiar state but not quite getting there. Then, I shift back again, keeping the new notes, but discarding one of the old. Slowly, the song transforms into something new, an awakening, but the change is not always beautiful. It is at times harsh and jarring, or high and rending or with undertones of fear or horror. It is conflicted, always conflicted, never finding a satisfactory pace or returning to a status quo, undefined, unsustainable, and without out a real end.

Once the last note has faded, hours have paced, and the day has spend itself well towards night. I turn to run, to hunt as is my nightly routine since the accident, and before I can get more than a step away from the bench, Emanuel has caught me up, refusing to let me slip away.

"I love you," he whispers into my hair and holds me, and it hurts. It hurts that he wants me to be happy and I am not. It hurts that he holds me and thinks well of me when I feel so undeserving. It hurts that the arms around me are not the ones that I want. The music did not help. I feel somehow betrayed all over again, though I know not who betrayed me the first time. I wish that I knew if god truly existed, so that I might defy and denounce him in earnest.

"I love you," he says again, and I finally hug him back. His arms around me are a comfort that I finally let in, because I feel as though I might explode if I do not.

"I love you too dad," I say, and we spend a moment staring into each others' faces before I dash out the door to my hunt. I am out of earshot of the house, when I hear it, with my sense, rather than my ears.

 _That idiot. How could she possibly love him?! Why must I be so selfish that I care!?_

Well, that explains a lot. Bowing my head, I keep running.


	5. Chapter 5: Conductions

My hunting has long since been finished. I am running and have been running for nearly two hours, using a circuit that took me well across the state, but nowhere near La Push. I am finding the time difficult because I know all too well what I want. I want to talk to him. I want him, and there is nothing I can do. Even if I went to him now, he would be asleep. There is no way I could justify moving towards him, seeking him out in the night. It would be a mistake. I need to call Alice, to find someone who will hold me accountable, who will make sure I don't do something stupid. Like coming to a silent stop in his yard.

His truck is parked out front, besides his mother's police cruiser. The house is quiet and there is no conscious mind anywhere on the street. I draw the line. This is far enough. I do not need to do anything more. Maybe just see him. I could do so from a window. I am not going inside and would have no way of doing so without leaving evidence of the invasion behind.

I listen. Two heartbeats in the house. He is upstairs. His heart is steady, relaxed, deeply asleep. I move to the window that I judge to be his, and leap, guiding my ascent perfectly so that I stop at the exact height and placement, gripping the window ledge. I peer inside and see his room.

He is sprawled upon his bed, restless, much of his bedding is half on the floor, completely abandon to sleep. His room is almost fastidiously clean, with only a few articles of clothing and a book out of place. As I watch, he rolls into a new contorted position, his heart beat never rising.

Enough, I tell myself. The forty-seventh time, I actually listen, dropping back to the ground and beginning to walk away.

"I know, dad."

I freeze. He talks in his sleep?

I am at the window again, hanging, listening.

"I can't," he mumbles.

It is too much. I cannot leave. This window into his mind, unfiltered, unedited, is too much. I cannot turn away. My curiosity is too intense.

Without thinking, I try the window. It is stiff and creaks with disuse, but I open it carefully and he does not stir. I hold my breath, walling myself off from the scent that might simply drift into my nose, so familiar to me that it is an undeniable habit. Now that I am going to hell, I decide to do the thing properly.

I look about his room and find it surprisingly minimal. There is nearly nothing here. Bare walls, a simple old computer, one rolling desk chair, one rocking chair, no stereo, a small number of well-worn books, with only six pairs of pants, seven T-shirts, eleven long sleeve shirts, four sweaters, one wet weather jacket and one cold weather jacket hanging in his closet. He has nothing, no life to speak of here, nothing that evokes any sense of self. What is his life? Who is he really? How can he be this amazing, selfless, unique and extraordinary person and have no life besides this?

I stand there, silent and watching. He looks so relaxed in sleep, almost like a child, naturally, for I am the monster who has come to terrorize him in the night. As I remain, watching, listening, I cannot but notice the contrast between us two, as it is so starkly manifested before me. I begin going down the list, trying to find some similarity, some way that we are the same, some cord that can connect me to him, and there is nothing. I start to realize the truth; I must leave. There is only one responsible action to take, only one solution. I cannot accept the two options before me, and the longer I stay, the harder it will be for me to leave. I should go, this second, this very moment.

But... I start to think about what will happen if I do. The girls, lining up yesterday. That will continue. Inevitably, he will not say no to all of them. One day, one girl will get a yes from him. He may even find a girl that he cares enough about to actually ask himself. And they will be together, have a life, love, children, a family, and happiness, all the things that humans should have. And he will, not hypotheticals necessary, because he is good and kind and how could he but choose the same for himself? It is everything he should have, and everything I cannot give him. I will cost him everything if I stay, and my sanity besides, for just bringing these ideas to mind is so excruciating, I almost cannot remain still and silent. Witnessing them would annihilate me.

I turn, walking to the window, making sure each step does not shift the boards of the floor loud enough for him to hear, each motion of my body slowed further by my own reluctance. I must go. I must give up on selfishness and do right by him. I must never lay eyes upon him again.

I make it to the window and it seems a cage wall, the bars of a cell, as impassible as granite and steel and stone to mortals, unyielding. I put the imagine in my mind, the one that I cannot stand, his double face, dead and damned, and use it to goad myself forward. I reach for the window, ready to say my goodbyes to him forever.

"Edwina."

I freeze. Moving not a single part of myself I need not, I turn as slowly and smoothly and silently as possible, just enough that I might see him. His heart rate is noticeably faster than it was, to me at least, but still slow. His eyes are still closed, moving in R.E.M. He is still asleep, but he spoke plainly, with an imploring tone that was almost as determined as I was to remain.

No, I tell myself. This is an excuse, a justification. He said my name. It means nothing.

But he said my name!

No. You cannot hope, you cannot divine your own explanation. You are biased. Leave.

But he said my name! He is dreaming about me!

No. Leave. You will kill him or worse.

"Stay."

I am sitting on the floor. I do not know how I got there, but I am there. My entire mind has stopped functioning. I cannot think. I am here, understanding this simple, single line of consciousness, but everything else is buried, gone, weighed down with the impossible single fact. He wants me to stay.

"No, Edwina," he says. "Don't go. Stay. Don't leave me."

And then, the weight is gone, and in its place, my mind speeds, races like nothing I have ever felt before. It is as though the great metaphorical abacus that is my brain is clicking, recalculating, rearranging, shifting, changing.

The day I was created, my mind was set, as though in stone, cast in the same substance as myself, implacable and fixed. New information could be gathered, new habits formed, new skills acquired. But who I am, the core of me, the code, both the creed by which I live and the analogous programming that drives who I am, had been as unchanged, constant, unbroken. Until now.

I am unmade and then remade. It is only one single change, one simple shift, but it has cascaded into every aspect of myself and how I view reality.

I love him.

I wish that my heart could race. I wish that I could cry. That image that I hold, the future image of his lips on mine is the most beautiful, the most wondrous, the second best memory I have. The first is this moment, beginning with his single request.

And I will. I can't leave now. I mustn't do anything that will lead me away from him. How could I? The depths and intensity of my feelings are superlative, indefinable, immeasurable. I would find a way to shift the stars if it would make him smile.

Without thinking, I begin to breathe, deeply, and as frequently as I can without making noise. Every time is just as bad as the first day I met him. Burning and pain. Torture. I see red, see blood, every fantasy that I had been walling away, every part of the monster that I am, breaks through. And, I accept it. I see it as the burden that it is, the price that I must pay, and I pay it, gladly.

And, I plan. I now have four choices. One, make a mistake that would end his life. Impossible. I will do everything that I need to do to avoid that possibility. Two, leave for his own benefit. Nearly impossible. I think that I could if I had no choice, but only if I absolutely and undeniably had no other choice. Three, turn him, some day, risk his life and his soul so that I might keep him, forever. The idea is... powerful. I can tell that I must now wall that notion off, as I once did my hunger, for if it is allowed to find a foothold, I would readily take him from his bed now, run him to Katherine and ask her immediately to change him. It is so appealing, I might just consider it. And four, I could be with him. I could stay and have him remain human, let him live his life and be his, and have him be mine, if he so chose, until his dying day. I could not think any further than that. A world without him seems impossible. Pointless. Meaningless.

The sun begins to lighten the sky in the east. I had not counted the seconds, my mind on other things, and I know that I must leave with some haste. Slowly, as carefully and slowly as I can, the entire time making sure he sleeps on, I take his closest hand, turn it, and kiss it. He makes a single breath, a light smile just tugging at his mouth. Letting him be, I leave the way I came, making my plans for the day and to be back tonight.

As I return home, Alice isn't waiting for me. I walk inside and find Emanuel sitting on the couch, looking over the news on his laptop at great speed.

"How was your run?" he asks, and I smile. Something about that smile catches his attention.

"Are you well?" he asks, his eyes observing and his own smile finding its way onto his face.

"I am very well," I say, my words almost a sigh of gratification. His grin matches mine.

"Alice left a few hours ago," he says. "She started squealing, bouncing up and down, then ran out the door, muttering something about her turn to wreck a mountaintop. Any idea what that was about?"

"Yes," I say, "but I can't really get into it at the moment, I have to get ready for school."

Then I, for the first time in my life, try to dress myself for school. This is usually Alice's forte, and I have absolutely no skill in it. I rummage and find some denim pants and cotton shirt, wondering if these are colors or styles that Ben might like, but then I think that such things probably mean very little to him, as they do to me. But after trying on three outfits, nothing seems to feel right, and I miss my sister and absolute need her here at this moment for about forty-nine different reasons, so naturally, she comes tearing in from the woods, leaps in through her window, and we are hugging and laughing and twirling with abandon.

"I love him!" I say, and everyone in the house can hear us if they care to.

"I know!" she squees.

"I can't pick out my outfits!" I whine.

"I know!" she commiserates.

Digging through a small drawer that I had never opened, she tosses my two articles of clothing. I flip them so I can tell what they are and find myself holding a wine colored crushed velvet triangle bra and matching panties.

"Why am I wearing these?" I ask, a laugh trying to escape me from somewhere.

She continues rummaging, "Those are for you."

"Why?" I ask, then recall whom I am speaking with, then disrobe and slide the articles on. The soft and silky textures feel amazing, and I feel decidedly and undeniably feminine. I think about the idea of Ben seeing me in this and I am about to ask when she tsks me.

"I said 'Those are for you'," she admonishes. "Now, here."

She hands me a black, high-collared, button up long sleeve black silk top and a smooth, light gray pencil skirt, with white flat strap sandals. For a jacket, she hands me a navy blue cardigan with colorful floral embroidery around the long bottomed hem that will fall to mid-thigh on me. In moments, I am dressed and feel lovely, from my outer layer all the way down to my still heart.

"Let's go," she says. "It's time."

"Will he like it?" I wonder, looking at the clothing hanging on my body.

Alice stops. She turns and takes my hand in both of hers.

"It doesn't matter to him," she says.

I want to say more. I want to ask, I want to know, to read her mind and see how events will unfold. I look into her eyes and see that she is waiting, letting me understand, letting me figure it out, as she does for Jasper. I wait and listen.

"You aren't some flower, with enticing petals," she says, stroking her thumbs over the back of my hand. "You are you, and he cares more about that than even he understands. It is pointless for you to be anything but that; you."

Her words fill me, show me just how silly, how stupid I'm being. I'm no better than any other girl in my place, wanting to buy into the communal lie, to believe that if I act a certain way or be a certain way, he'll want me more, that he'll have no choice. But he always has a choice. And I love him, completely. Should he choose to walk away from me, for any reason, I will let him. My love is not dependent on anything, let alone whether or not he loves me back.

I can't help the depth of my broad smile, and Alice gets all giggly again and hugs me.

"Let's go," she says, taking my hand and running down the stairs with me to the car.

The others are waiting for us and we all enter together. I drive and we're perfectly silent the whole trip. Rory's mind is on his main project, designing the perfect car, his mind so intent that he thinks of nothing else, and I believe I know the reason why. Jasper is thinking what this will mean, weighing risks and advantages, trying to sort a balance between trusting Alice's visions and feeling safe. Emily is amused by everything, as entertained and excited as she would be in a fight or at a wedding. Alice is thinking about something so quickly I can't see it, some future event that is far in the future.

We get to school early, before any other students, and the others disappear as they head to various spots to wait for the first bell. I am practically humming with wanting to see him, standing beside the silver Mercedes. I have to remind myself several times that he isn't aware of any change in me, that I will seem very different from yesterday. This might be very annoying for him, which cheers me to no end.

I'm not discounting his feelings or making light of them, but there is a difference between inflicting unhappiness upon a person and having them choose to be unhappy. Ben is great at choosing to be frustrated, deciding that the best way to behave when he does not like a situation is to become angry or pout or be unpleasant, but I can see past that now. He is doing what he thinks is best in the moment and isn't hurting anyone. It is funny to think about and will likely be funnier to see.

He pulls up in his truck, a distracted look on his face. I wonder, somehow and unbelievably, impossibly more intense than before, what he might be thinking. The lot is clear of anyone watching, so, as he parks with the rear of the truck pointed towards the school, I moved to the side of the truck just behind the driver's door, lounging against it as he gets out.

I wait for it, and as he turns towards me, he jumps with more animation than I have ever seen out of him. I am singing with laughter, if only on the inside, as his keys go flying, and I catch them without a thought, realizing afterward that I have done so faster than any human should be able to do so. I can't seem to be anything but myself around him now. I reach out, handing him his keys back.

He looks back and forth between my hand and my eyes.

"How do you do that?" he asks, sounding upset. I just smile wider at him.

His eyes drop down my face, hesitantly falling upon my mouth, where he stares, openly, unblinkingly, posturing beginning to relax. I feel him, the heat in the air, and start breathing as I had the night before, the burn racing down my throat, letting me know that he is here, with me. I feel the velvet against my skin as I breath, connecting all the sensations in my head, the appeal of his scent, the delight of him here with me, the joy of the love that I feel for this beautiful boy before me, the slide of material against my skin. I feel like a girl, like a person for the first time in my life, and I get to feel that way, here, with him. Alice is going to get to do my hair every day for a year.

I almost can't keep the smile on my face. I want to laugh out loud, to sing, to confess all to him, to kiss him, to cry tearlessly, and all of these seem to be trying to find their way onto my expression at once.

He seems to come back to himself, standing straight and reaching for his keys, which I drop into his hand and say, can't help but tease him, "It helps when the other person isn't looking."

He sighs, and I am laughing on the inside again, wanting to hold his hand, kiss his cheek, caress his hair, wrap myself up in him and breathe...

"What do you want?" he asks, and I realize that I don't know what I wanted to do here. I just wanted to be near him, and I hadn't thought about it any harder than that. I start coming up with ideas, and one strikes me as so funny, I can't help but laugh.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," I say as casually pleasant as I can.

He tries to sound annoyed, displeased, but he can't hold onto it. He just sounds curious, almost eager.

"I thought you didn't want to talk to me," he says, "that you didn't want to be my friend, in point of fact."

My smile twists as I try not to say that I would rather be so much, much more, but I settle for teasing him more. It is just so fun to watch his face.

"I never said I didn't want to be your friend," I say, trying not to smile too much. I could continue and point out my exact words, but his reaction would be too good to pass up.

"Yeah, you did!" he expounds, his eyes getting wide, his body shuttering with the passion of his indignation. It is all I can do not to roll on the pavement.

"I said that it would be better if we weren't friends," I correct.

Nearly instant, he relaxes again.

"Okay, so, what?" he asks. "You are talking to me quite a lot for someone who doesn't think we should be friends."

Of course. He cuts right to the point, immediately, and wants an explanation. I find myself feeling, of all things, a little embarrassed by my behavior. I look down, considering my words.

Can I tell him the truth? No, I can't. I'm sure a few of my family members would understand, but not all of them would accept that. But just because I can't tell him the truth about what I am doesn't mean I can't tell him the truth about what I feel. I can be that honest, at least.

"I know that my behavior has been a bit contradictory," I say, trying to sound as much like myself as I can, without invoking the teenage school girl voice I use when I am in public, and as I do so, I realize just how much I have been using my normal voice with him already. How long as it been since I truly began loving him?

"...and I can image that it might be a bit..." I go on, "confusing for you. But it really isn't worth the effort to try and stay away from you anymore."

He stops breathing. His heart thuds along like drumming of prey footfalls in the woods, and he blinks a few times over the course of a minute. He shakes his head, as much in an effort to clear it as it is a denial.

"I... just don't get you," he says. "At all."

I laugh. Of course, he doesn't. And that doesn't matter. I could try and explain what I could, but that wouldn't change anything. I love him and we are here, and I am happy. Happy!

"Was that it?" he asks. "Can I go now or do you want to confuse me some more?"

I try desperately not to smile, both at what is coming and at my own amusement. I had completely forgotten what I had intended to ask, being so caught up in him.

"You keep distracting me," I say, almost a complaint if such a thing was possible.

He lets out a snort, a little laugh. Why is that funny? What is he thinking!?

NO! Mustn't be distracted again.

"I wanted to ask you," I say, recalling Erica and purposefully dropping off, requiring him to ask.

"Yes?" he asked, sighing. He still has no idea.

"Saturday after next," I say, dropping off as I did before.

His face sort of falls, disbelieving, "Yes?"

He still has no idea. It is too much! I have to. I just have to!

"The weekend of the dance-," I start, but he cuts me off.

It works!

"No!" he shouts out. "This cannot be happening to me..."

"What?" I say, laughing, knowing the punchline before he does. "You aren't going to Seattle that Saturday?"

His emotional outburst fizzles, his eyes direct but just the faintest edge to them, surprise and... mistrust, maybe.

"That was the plan," he says, his tone making the distrust evident, but there is something else there I don't quite catch. "Why?"

I want him to trust me. I want him to say yes to me. I want his dream to be real, so badly that if I think about it too intently, I won't be able to keep the desire off my face, the fear, the pain. But I am not a coward, not like Mickie or Erica. I know that the only chance he will have to say yes is if I ask.

"Would you like a ride?" I ask simply.

He glances around, almost as though looking for something.

"I have a truck," he says.

I smile. He was looking for an excuse. I rather like that I understood that.

"I never said you didn't," I say politely.

He doesn't look around this time, "I can get there on my own."

I follow up with the same pattern, "I never said you couldn't."

"Will you just leave me alone!?" he demands, walking towards the school.

Suddenly, I understand. He doesn't just not understand. I have asked and, my teasing aside, made what I thought was a rather overt overture. If one asks to spend time with another, the other can reasonably deduce that one wants to spend time with said other. He still doesn't understand, can't see, that there is nowhere in the world I would rather be, than beside him, with him, that I love him. Would that I could make my most earnest heart know, evoke my most impassioned voice, my sincerest expressions, all that I knew of convincing humans, would my confessions fall on deaf ears and blind eyes? If even the full magnitude of my devotions were laid bare, wouldst he deny me?

He didn't make it far. The very idea that he can't comprehend what I felt for him is impossible. For the first time ever, I want to draw close to him. I can almost feel myself take his wrist, gently, holding to him and moving with him until he slows and stops. Or, I envision my hands going about his waist or up under his arms and across his chest, holding him to me, refusing to let go. Or, throwing myself around to his front, clinging to him, arm and leg, weighing him down, one hand to his face, the other in his hair. I consciously deny myself the answer of where I would put my lips in that last scenario.

I settle for stopping before him. We haven't been drawing any attention and a quick check allows me to know that if I do move at my usual speed, only he will notice. And I want him to notice. I want him to see. I want him to understand that I do trust him, that I want him, that he is so very important to me, that I would risk for him, as he has risked for me, that I love him.

I breathe deep his scent, feeling the burn, welcoming the desire for him that it inspires in me. I keep the hunger for him, that need off of my face with more ease than ever before. I remain relaxed and earnest, simply stopping him by the most basic social convention. He looks at me, really looks, for the first time that I can see, and I keep myself open to him, letting him look. He looks at all of my features in turn, and I feel a little thrill as he lingers ever so slightly more at my lips, though I don't think about that too hard. As much as I believe I could restrain myself, I don't want to risk him by being tempted to try it.

I look deep into his eyes and say, the vastness of my adoration just inches, a breath below the surface, "Please, don't walk away. You didn't answer my question."

His face becomes rather blank, "You... question?"

"Do you want to drive with me to Seattle, next Saturday?" I ask again, trying to pick out any expression on his face.

"Yes," he says.

He said yes? He said yes!

The barest hint of the idea of keeping the expression off of my face trickles through my mind, but I can't. I just can't. I smile at him. I want so badly to take his hand in gratitude, but I might scare him.

I settle for saying, "Great. See you later."

Then turning, I walk away. I have to leave because if I don't, I won't be able to hide it anymore. As soon as I am outside of the perception of all but my family, I am running. I practically soar, flying over the ground, trying to manifest the feeling I have rushing through me. HE SAID YES!

I laugh with the exaltation of it all, it bubbling out of me. By the time class is about to start, I have calmed enough to be around humans. I find my seat, and then find Ben in his. He is still, unmoving, expressionless, unable to be roused from this fugue by anything but the bells between classes.

The irony of this is that Ben more or less has the same morning I do. I am so focused on him, despite his lack of change, that I am just as oblivious to what is going on around me. I occasionally form answers to questions asked of me by reflex, but when I prepare to answer, I realize that an hour has gone by or that I am no longer in that class anymore. By the time Gym is wrapping up, I realize that I do not want to wait for Biology before I get to speak with him again. I make my decision, and I hear Alice's little laugh as she sees.

 _You are going to confuse him,_ she lets me know.

I consider this but am okay with it, and she sees that in my expression from across the locker room.

 _Don't say I didn't warn you,_ she thinks.

I smile at her, letting my wonder and elation show, and she bounces, trying not to squeal.

I quickly leave the locker room when the bell rings, hunting for a table.

 _Is he stoned?_ Jesse thinks. _That really wouldn't be like him. He's too clean cut for all that. But still, what the hell?_

"Oh, my, god, dude!" says Jesse, I can just make him out through all the noise, but the sorting takes enough time that I don't bother and simply listen through his own ears through his mind. _"What is with you today? Mrs. Varner called on you three times before she just gave up! I have never seen that happen. I thought we were going to have to check for a pulse or call an exorcist or something."_

Ben looks odd and awed, still very out of sorts.

" _Today, has been... a really weird day."_

They begin making their way towards the cafeteria.

 _Weird?_ thinks Jesse. _Weird how? The guy is sort of weird himself. What is weird to a weird guy? Did he almost get hit by another van again? Has he had more girls asking him out? Yeah right!_

" _Oh?"_ Jesse asks. _"How so?"_

Ben shakes his head with his snorting, subdued laugh, _"I don't even know how to begin to explain."_

They walk into the cafeteria, and I get to see his face with my own eyes again. He looks eager, a slight smile to his lips, but as he turns, he face falls in utter disappointment. I want to run to him at full speed, to look desperately into his eyes from mere inches away to find the source of this pain, to remove it, but then part of my mind finishes calculating angles, and I know why he is disappointed. I am not sitting at the table I usually do. He didn't see me and thinks I am not here. And he is disappointed. Suddenly it is all I can do not to jump up and down in my chair, for having him notice me and at the excitement his disappointment has brought me.

He gets an apple from the lunch line. He has lost his apatite. I feel a little embarrassed that this too makes me happy.

"Are you feeling okay?" asks Jesse. "Seriously, what is up with you?"

 _Dude! This is just odd! What is up with Ben!? He's a nice enough guy and all. Can't he just, get over it?_

"Nothing," he says, his disappointment palpable. "Just... nothing. Never mind."

They start moving towards their usual table, which is what I wanted. I placed myself so that he would see me if he walked to their usual table from the lunch line. Of course, he spots me almost immediately and relaxes at once. I cannot but smile at him. I gesture at the open chairs about me. He could choose one if he wanted. Might I get another yes?

"Um," he says, as though he forgotten all about Jesse standing beside him. "I'll catch up with you later."

"Why?" Jesse asks.

Ben didn't bother explaining. He got halfway to my table before Jesse noticed me.

 _Why is she sitting by herself?_

He didn't even notice Ben's direction.

 _She seems happy. What is she looking at?_

Soon, Ben's proximity to me couldn't be ignored.

 _NO! WHAT?! NO WAY! NOT POSSIBLE!_

"Are you KIDDING me!?" actually makes it out of his mouth. I can't tell if Ben heard or not. It is enough that more than a few students notice Jesse, and most of those notice what he is noticing. I mostly tune them all out.

He chooses the chair directly across from me, the easiest for me to see, the diametric opposite, the balanced point. I appreciate this detail on many levels, but I really would prefer the chair next to me.

He plays with his food, as though forming words. His eyes are on me, uninhibited and clear to me, so I let him. I could lose an incalculable length of time getting lost in those eyes.

After a short eternity that I will replay in my mind in every spare second I have for forever, he speaks, "I have to ask, what gives?"

His tone is light, unlike what I have ever heard from him. It speaks of banter and of playfulness, and ease. I drink it in, finding a depth of delight in it that I haven't ever found in another's speech, even my family. I lean back, settling into his voice, finding myself adopting it, adopting him, holding him to me and languishing in him, even across the table.

"Whatever do you mean?" I ask.

He shakes his fruit at me, accusing, scolding, not quite begrudging.

"You hate me," he says, and I almost interrupt to argue, but he goes on, "you're polite to me, you ignore me, you reject me, now you won't leave me alone. I'm getting whiplash over here."

I soak up more of his voice, wanting to piece every sound together, to be capable of hearing him seek any word or phrase together, even in languages he does not speak. I memorize and deconstruct, marveling at the strangeness that is me.

"I thought women were supposed to be unfathomable and convoluted," I reply, poking fun at my gender, if not my species. He is munching his food and sounds as though he is having trouble swallowing so he can answer.

"You are at that," he says, his tone shifting from playful agreement to almost staggering conviction, "but you aren't like any young woman I've ever known."

He's right. I'm not. I'm not even human. And he doesn't seem to mind.

I smile. But then I realize, he really doesn't seem to care. Some portion of my consciousness in the back of my mind points out that if he doesn't seem to mind vampires, he won't protect himself from them, their threat to his life or the threat to his soul. He is as much to blame for his binary future as I am. Somehow, I cannot seem to care enough for that right now.

"True," I say, smiling with my lips pressed.

I watch him as he eats. As fascinating as it is, I can't dampen my curiosity or the joy I get at actually being able to ask, for myself!

"Tell me what you're thinking," I say. Okay, I will ask in the future rather than demand. If I can stand it.

Something flits across his face, the tiniest hint of fear and embarrassment, but it fades quickly. No! He isn't allowed to lie, which I am sure he is about to do. I must call him on it.

"I was wondering what you weren't telling me," he says.

I would have laughed at the irony of it, but I refrain. It is true. We both know it.

"Oh," I say, deciding that he can lie to me if he wants. It's his decision. But the necessity of my own lie hurts. I want to tell him everything. All of it. All of me. But I couldn't do that, least of all that it would risk my family and my entire way of life. And, I know that if I tell him, there is a marginally large chance that he will turn his back on me because I am a damned monster.

He seems to expel his held breath, "Look, you don't have to tell me. I get it. But can't you at least tell me why you can't tell me?"

He wants me to trust him. He wants the truth, if only a little piece of it. I wonder if I told him the truth, if it would increase the chances he would stay or not. So, I am as honest as I can be.

"Two reasons," I say to him. "One, it isn't my secret to tell, and two, I am afraid that if I do tell you, you'll stay away from me."

I watch as he deconstructs my words, processes them, considers them.

"If it isn't your secret," he asks, "then who's is it?"

I can't tell him that. For one, the answer technically is all vampire kind. It occurs to me for the first time that he can't know. If he does, and the Volturi become aware, there will never be that fourth option for him.

"That would be telling," I say, shaking my head.

He looks around for moment, "Fair enough. But why do you think that I would stay away from you?"

I consider how to answer him. I can't tell him that I am a monster without telling him that I am a monster. What could I ever do to prove my worth beside him?

"I don't want to tell you," I say, which is about the most honest thing I have ever said to him.

"Why?" he says, something in his voice, almost a pleading note to it.

"For the same reason," she said almost weakly, "If I tell you that, why you should stay away, I am afraid you will."

I want to be good enough for him. He cares so much for those around him, caring for them over himself, thinking about what is in their best interest. Could I even hope to do that?

Simple; I just need to do it.

"And you should," I say. "It would be in your best interest to never speak to me again."

His expression looks troubled. I want to ask what his is thinking, but how could I ever ask again when I can't be honest myself?

I find myself wishing that I was more afraid. If I was more afraid, then maybe I would stay away from him.

"You were wrong before," I say. "I am not a coward. It might be better for you if I was. Instead, I am something far, far worse for you."

"And that is?" he asks tonelessly.

"Selfish," I say, my self-loathing palpable.

He thinks long about something, then realization fills his face.

"Oh," he says.

Oh god!

What does that mean? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN!?

He couldn't have figured it out, could he? What does he know!? Is he about to leave forever?!

"What?" I ask harshly, wanting to know but not wanting to.

"It's dangerous," he says.

I sit straight and don't move. It is dangerous, but I need to hear more.

"Or," he continues, as though thinking aloud, "it can be dangerous. There's... risk to being around you."

I nod, so very slightly. I want him to keep talking. Hearing him speak his thoughts in this way feels cathartic, amazing, somewhere between him saying yes and the feel of warm rain on bare skin. It is the only thing keeping me from flying apart.

"You're afraid that if I understand that," he says, forming each link in the chain, a chain that is strangling me, "when I understand it, I'll leave."

"You should go," I say, almost unable to get the words out. "It isn't worth risking..."

I can't continue. I cannot form the words anymore. How can I tell him, make him see, without barring myself from him forever. I want him to go, to live, to be happy, even if it means that I never will be. But how can I let him go? If I could be good enough to let him go, I would undo every reason that I need to leave. If I kept him, I would prove myself the monster. How could I ever make the right decision again?

He thinks, his face hard. He looks determined, as though he is forcing himself to think of something unpleasant. I can't imagine him having something nice to think about right now. Finally, he seems to peak, as though he cannot endure it any longer, than shakes his head, as much to dismiss as to clear it.

"So," he says, his voice lighter, as though this conversation has not transpired, "as long as I am willing to risk it and you're being selfish, we can be friends?"

I can't help it; I laugh.

It isn't funny. He is cavalierly casting his life into my hands that apparently would just as soon drop him as not. And he is counting on my own selfishness for this to continue. And yet, he wants it to continue. He keeps saying yes to me, keeps wanting me, keeps wanting to be with me. It seems impossible, but is true.

"Friends," I say, as though I could be satisfied to simply be his friend.

"And," he intones, jokingly, "so long as you don't pull a Doctor Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde on me and stay away from me for my own good again."

I can't help but smile. He wants me to be happy, to smile. And it is funny. As though I could just leave again.

"I really don't think you will have to worry about that again," I say. "As I said, I am a selfish creature. I tried to do the right thing, and it didn't work. So, now, I am going to just do what I want. As long as you want to be my... friend, I will be yours."

I want to be more, so much more. I run through every word for a female companion that I can think of and nothing fits. I want to be his everything, be as meaningful to him as he is to me.

He looks sad as he says, "You don't have to make me any promises."

I realize that even know, he can't see his own appeal, the affect he has on me. I wonder if I was to cross the table, sit in his lap with my legs around him, hold his face in my hand, kiss him passionately, and the look deep into his eyes as I confessed my love to him, if he would believe. The idea is suddenly so appealing, I have trouble staying in my chair.

The bell rings. He jumps, as though startled.

"Oh, wow," he says, looking almost confused by the fact that we are in the cafeteria and there are students all around us.

"Come on," he says.

 _They're blood typing,_ thinks Alice to me.

I smile, without revealing me teeth. I acknowledge my desire to kill him and accept it, allowing that it is not going to happen.

"I'm not going to class," I say.

He looks displeased. I try not to laugh as I realize that he has probably never missed a day of school in his life. Well, outside of illness or emergency.

"Why?" he asks, sounding dismayed.

I keep smiling, "It would be a rather bad idea to go."

I like him alive.

"I've never cut class before," he says.

Well duh! As though I needed him to say so.

"I'm going to go," he says, taking up the remnants of his food, "I guess I will see you later."

I want so much to offer, to ask him to come away with me. I am not entirely sure that I would kill him if he said yes. I might just keep him all to myself. I remember how easy it was to lure my pray away with me, but the idea of stealing him away to some secluded spot, the thought of my lips on his neck for entirely different reasons, is very enticing, almost to the point of me considering risking his life for it. But I can't keep being this selfishness, not if I want the fourth option. Control, discipline, caution.

I nod, smiling once more at him, letting him go. Only the thought that I will see him again lets me do it.

"See you later," I say. As soon as he is gone, I make my way to the parking lot, sneaking better than any student ever has, other than my siblings. I am in the car without anyone seeing me. I lay the seat back so that I will remain unseen, thinking about him.

I can do it. I can keep him human. I will be as honest as I can, keeping making safe decisions as much as possible, and as long as he keeps saying yes to me, I will stay, I will learn to never, ever make a single mistake, and I will prove that here is where I deserve to be. I will show him that I love him, and he might just love me back, truly.

I feel my fingers drift down the contours of my legs, my thighs, but just before the feeling starts to shift towards sensuality, I feel the desire for keys to be beneath my fingers, I make my legs the piano in my mind. I begin, finding the notes, slowly, a bridge at a time, focusing my whole mind on the piece before me. As I play, I put his face before me, think of him, and let myself flow, without purpose, simply feeling, conveying. His face, soft and beautiful in sleep, swims before me, and the song changes. It becomes a lullaby.

Practically nothing could keep me from him, the memory, the music he inspires in me, at the moment. Practically nothing, but not everything.

The image of his face in my mind is replaced by one in the mind of another. His relaxed slumber is replaced with sickly distress.

He's dying.

The door nearly comes off in my haste. I am across the lot before I can remember that someone might see me. I see them now, Ben leaning against the wall, legs somewhat splayed, his posture limp and his face sallow. Mickie stands beside him, impotent and frightened.

"What happened?" I ask before I can even consider excuses for my presence.

 _NO!_

"Mrs. Banner brought out the blood tying kits," explains the idiot child standing over him, "and he just put his head down and didn't move. I think he fainted."

He didn't faint. I can hear that from here. And he didn't prick his finger. I could have so easily killed him in my haste. Alice will have some explaining to do.

 _Don't blame me,_ Alice thinks, already seeing our conversation at home. _He wasn't in any danger from you._

"I didn't faint," he says, so very defensively. "I'm fine. Just go away!"

I giggle. I don't think I ever have since I became what I am. Surely, as a human child, I must have. I am so relieved, seeing he's intact, feeling faint at the sight of blood, endearingly defensive, resisting to admit his limitations boy self. I would sing if not for giggling. I love him.

 _No,_ Mickie thinks. Her thought is so quiet, so pitiful. She sees. Despite her self-delusions and her shortcomings, she can see it. _She actually loves him! NO! This isn't fair! He is mine! He should be mine!_

"Come on," I say, not letting her thoughts detract me one little bit from how much I care for him, the beautiful boy in all his glorious and human imperfections. I smoothly and carefully lift him to stand, catching under his arm, having him lean on me, my arm across his back. He feels so warm, so alive, and he smells amazing. I never noticed around just how much I wanted to kill him. That thought is there but has no bearing whatever on my actions.

"What are you doing?" he protests, trying to resist without jostling himself. "Stop it!"

"If you'd prefer," I whisper in his ear so that only he can hear, thrilling at how close we are, "I could just carry you."

I hear the click of his teeth as he promptly closes his mouth.

 _No!_ Mickie is still ranting inside her own head. _She can't do this! I won't let her take him away from me!_

"Hey," Mickie complained, "I was supposed to-"

I am subjected to a whole slew of images of me taking care of him in the nurse's office, of us becoming closer, of her waiting in the wings for me to finally get tired of him, so she can comfort him.

I act as though she doesn't exist. Walking away from her without another word is possibly the most gratifying action I have taken all day. Ben does not even say goodbye to her.

"Really," he says, sounding a bit more like himself, "I can walk on my own."

Naturally, I must tease him when he gets defensive. How could I not?

"Do you really want to risk another head injury so soon?" I admonish him. "Your masculinity is intact."

I cannot help but tack on, for I must know, "But do you really faint at the sight of blood?"

"And the smell," he replies, his words getting a little groggy. "But I didn't faint. I just got... woozy..."

He sounds so very much like an innocent little boy. I want to hold him to me, the carry him against me, to show him affection and care, to love him openly. I settle for taking him to the nurse, for now.

Mr. Cope sees us enter and immediately jumps up from his chair.

"Oh boy," he singsongs and gets the doors for me as we walk into Mr. Hammond's office.

He looks at me as I draw Ben into the room.

"We're blood typing in Biology," I explain.

 _Ah,_ he thinks. _Little odd that she would bring him in. The boys don't usually come in that often, and when they do, it isn't with such a lovely lady._

"Bring him in, bring him in," says Mr. Hammond, gesturing us to the small twin bed they have for students to lie upon. As I am moving him there, I let just how much I care about Ben show in my face to the degree that he couldn't miss it. I also add a large amount of concern and worry. Once he is able to have a better look at me, he gets it.

 _Looks like we have a little Nightingale on our hands,_ he thinks. Eh. _Who am I to judge?_

"I'll get him some ice for his head," he says, "You can go back to class, miss."

I give him my most heartbroken and imploring look, my lip quivering ever so slightly.

"Must I?" I ask, my voice catching, looking back to Ben.

"Alright, alright," he says. _I better get out of here before she cries or something._

It will always amaze me the lengths men will go to in order to avoid the tears of young women.

"Alright," Ben croaks as soon as we have the room to ourselves, "you were right."

One corner of my mouth pulls upwards, "You? Making a concession? Shall I call Guinness?"

"Fine," he says, rolling his eyes and looking charmingly stubborn. "You were wrong, and you always will be."

I am tempted to continue, but alas, curiosity.

"Your banter is endearing," I say, using a tone I hope will persuade him, "but I really would like to know what you thought I was right about."

"Why?" he asks, a bit morose. "So you can lord it over me?"

I think about his words for a long time, at least for me. He probably doesn't notice any time passing at all. I do not understand immediately why he is upset. In that moment, when he was making a concession, he was taking a chance. He was willing to say that he was wrong, and while I do very much enjoy teasing him, doing so, when he was admitting a fault and already not feeling himself, was wrong of me. He believed I cared more for teasing him than I did for him, which is not true. He needs to know that I thought he is important. Also, I notice just how much effort it took me, with inhuman speed of faculties, to realize this. How did human do this? No wonder human relationships are often so thoughtlessly fraught with arguments and unhappiness.

"Whether or not I am actually right is incidental," I say casually, "though usually true. What I was interested in is what you thought."

He immediately relents the situation, his face relaxing, "Going to class was a bad idea."

I can't help it; I burst out in a merry peal of laughter, my hands animate and never still as they find everything they can do that isn't what I want to do; to touch him.

Mr. Hammond comes back in, and I take the ice pack without even looking at him and proceed to press it gently to his head. I am careful not to touch him, but he doesn't really seem to notice what is going on. This caring for him, this little kindness, is so much more than I ever hoped to have with him. I want to confess it all to him, every bit of it. How can I be a part of his life and tell him nothing? I am just glad that I can worry about the future and still have enough sense to enjoy the present.

Luckily, Mr. Hammond had gone back to his paperback and was not looking when Ben decides to sit up, and I have the chance to move my hand from the ice as he takes it, missing the contact by less than a second. He sits straighter, adjusts the ice to the side of his face, and looks at me.

"You really don't have to wait for me, you know," he says, embarrassment just hinting upon his face.

I smile sideways at him, "I am quite aware of what my choices are."

He isn't getting rid of me that easily.

"I'm just saying," he says, not nearly so defensively now, just the barest hint of sadness, "I'm sure that there are other things you would rather be doing."

It almost hurts how much I wish that I could simply tell him. But he wouldn't accept it. He can't believe that anyone could ever love him. I will have to convince him, by inches, allowing him the space to realize it himself.

"You're so sure?" I ask, making it obvious that I think it is arrogant for him to believe his singular view is correct.

His eyes go wide in surprise then narrow with doubt, "You're telling me that of all the things that it would be possible to be doing right now, you would rather be sitting in this dinghy nurse's office, watching me melt an ice pack on my head and babble semi-coherently?"

Mr. Hammond finds the adjective "dinghy" somewhat lacking, but can't foster enough energy to come up with a compelling counter argument inside his own head. He goes back to his book.

I think about his question. Of all the things I could be doing right now, what would I do if I had the chance? For just a moment, I let the censor I have set up in my own head, the ones keeping my mind away from what I cannot have, come down. The first thing that washes over me is white seats, warm sun, gentle breeze, soft folds on softer bedding, his warmth, his soft hands on my skin, shining prismatically in the golden yellow light, him sighing my name, every motion and action and vocalization saying that we love one another better than any words could ever convey, and we use the words too.

I slam those censors back in place. I would break him. I would kill him. I can never be like that with him. Ever. Could I?

No. I will never be anything but a stone to him. I must only ever be one. How could he want what I am? So cold and hard and dead...

He is waiting. I put my answer together, a piece at a time.

"In the realm of infinite possibility," I say, starting from general so as to move to specific, "only so many things are really likely enough to happen. Of those things, the ones that involve me at school, acting in a socially acceptable manner, and not taking away others' rights to make their own decisions, my option are very, very limited. Of those options, this is right at the top of the list."

"So," he says, his sarcasm light but covering real curiosity, "I'm just keeping you from boredom?"

I wonder how long it will take for him to see.

But his question makes me smile. He has no idea how truly boring my innocuous little existence was before he came along.

"It's true," I say, "Things are far more interesting when you're around. But, from what your question implies, no; you're keeping me from some many other things."

Loneliness, heartbreak, emptiness, meaninglessness, futility, pain, pointlessness. Oblivion.

The door opens again, and this time, Mr. Cope is holding a semiconscious Brenda Chaney. As soon as the door opens, I kill Ben- No, Brenda! No, Mickie! All of them-

No! I calculate the number of steps I have ever taken. I count the number of millimeters I have driving.

Blood! There is blood in the air, and if it was Ben's I would be killing him now. I should kill him. How many people stand in my-

"Oh no," escapes my lips. We need to leave. No, I need to leave. I need to-

Ben is moving. His motion tells me what to do. I immolate without letting the hunter in me lock onto him, urging him forward. The air is cleaner out here, clearer, and I move into an area where the blood is merely a trace in the air. There are chairs here and we sit. He still has the ice in his hand and he puts it back on his face.

I suddenly feel afraid, in no small part because I just about killed him. Alice sighs across the school and goes back to focusing on the Government. We will talk after school.

"Hey," he says, and I recognize that I have been sitting here, wallowing about my mistake.

"Why did you do that?" I ask, so frightened by the idea that he realized, that he might be putting pieces together, that he might know what almost ended his life.

"Do what?" he asks back.

"Leave the office just now," I elaborate.

"Oh," he says, unconcerned. "Brenda was still bleeding. The smell would get to me just as quickly as the sight."

"You can smell blood?" I ask. I have never heard of a human being able to do such a thing.

"Yeah," he says, sounding a little sick again. "It smells like it tastes. Salty and coppery. Ugh."

 _No!_

Sigh.

Mickie walks over. Her mind is full of plans to try and separate us.

"You two look cozy," she says trying to shame me away from him. I simply smile, without the barest hint of vindictiveness on my face. My mind is full of plans to try and separate her... from the rest of her, a piece at a time.

She turns her attention to Ben and sounds more charitable when she asks, "Are you coming back to class?"

"No," he says politely. "People are still be bleeding."

 _Oh. Duh.. Stupid!_ she thinks.

"Are you still going tomorrow?" she asks him, her thoughts torn between smugness of having him all to herself and the sudden fear that I might drop in on their little beach trip.

"I'm still planning on it," he says, again politely.

"We're meeting in front of my parent's store," she said reluctantly. "Around ten."

 _She's not invited!She's not invited!She's not invited!_

"I'll be there," he says.

"See you in Gym," she says and then shuffles away, muttering, "And if you show up with Edwina, I will never speak to you again."

He sighs once she is gone, looking rather pale.

"Great..." he says, sounding defeated, "Gym."

He doesn't like Gym?

"What's wrong with Gym?" I ask, happy to be back on familiar ground.

He leans back, closing his eyes, "Not exactly my favorite subject."

"Ah," I say. Now it is my turn to feel stupid. I am sure his clumsiness might just work against him. How have I never noticed that he doesn't like Gym? Easy enough to have done with.

"I think I have a solution," I say quietly. "Stay as you are."

His head is leaned back, his expression, his complexion. There is little doubt that any onlooker would agree that Gym would not be in his best interest.

I move towards the desk, and as I do so, I am preparing to use my helpless schoolgirl persona, when it comes to my attention that Ben is sitting nearby, likely paying attention to exactly what I am doing. The last thing I want is to be so transparent in my ability to manipulate the humans around me. Instead, for the first time since we started this charade of high school, I was truly sincere in my overtures.

"Mr. Cope," I say, unable to keep the pleading tone from my voice, feeling a bit anxious and hoping that I can help Ben, keep him protected. "I don't mean to bother you, but Ben has Gym next period, and I really don't think he's going to be up for it. Is there any way you could please excuse him from class? I wouldn't mind driving him home."

He drops the paper he is holding, his mind a little fuzzy, then jerks into motion, trying to assist me faster than he can keep up with.

The jumble of Mr. Cope brain jounces his words as he says, "Uh, not at all, Ms. Cullen. Not at all. You will need an excuse too, won't you?"

The thought of Ben trying to drive himself home, which he absolutely would, has me nearly frantic with anxiety for a moment.

"I'm sorry," I say with earnest discomfort. "If you wouldn't mind..."

"Certainly," he replies, still tripping over his own mind to assist me. "Would you like some help getting him to the car?"

"That's very kind," I say, which it is, "but I got him here alright. I should be able to get him to the parking lot without trouble."

"Alright," he says, signing a log at his desk. "I've made the appropriate notations. Feel better there, son."

I take up position beside Ben as we walk carefully out of the office. He picks up the pace a bit as we are out of Mr. Copes sight and we head for the parking lot after disposing of the ice.

"Thanks," he says with a touch of commiseration. "This whole experience has been so lousy, but it's worth it if only to miss Gym."

I can't help but feel a touch hurt by the statement, but it wasn't his intention. I can't help but point it out to him.

"Has it been so bad?" I ask quietly, pitching my tone for emphasis.

He is thoughtful a moment, "Well, I guess not."

He sounds a little cowed, which is enough to smooth out the hurt in me. He turns towards his truck.

"Where are you going?" I ask, wondering how he would ever think that I would let him go off on his own, let alone leave me behind.

"Um," he says, waving his arm a bit uncontrollably towards his vehicle, "home."

There is no way in hell I am letting him think about driving in his state.

"But if we take you truck," I say frowning, "how will I get back here?"

I know how I would, but that doesn't mean he does.

"Oh," he says, looking like it is his turn to feel stupid.

"Uh..." he says, as though not sure what to say, "You were serious about driving me home? You don't have to."

My endearing idiot boy. What idiots we both are! How could I ever keep myself away from him for long, and how could he ever believe the person to love him most in his life was standing before him?

"Did it ever occur to you," I say with perhaps a little more sadness than I really intended to put in my voice, "that I might actually want to drive you home?"

He looks confused, "But, why?"

I am presented with another opportunity to be completely honest with him. That, and the thought of him, has me smiling again.

"Because," I say with conviction, "of the possible activities I have before me, there's nothing I'd rather do than be with you."

"Oh," he says, nearly the same as the first time. I step towards our car, and he follows, a drizzling rain starting to fall. I feel it upon my face, and wish that I knew what his hands upon my face felt like. I unlock the car for us and enter, but he doesn't notice my use of the key fob, so I make it a point to use it more openly in the future. To avoid embarrassing him, I reach across to open his door, which doesn't give me the chance to get the seat I was reclined in just minutes ago up without him noticing. He makes no comment, so I drive away.

His scent in the confined car is even more painful than usual, so much so that I need a distraction or it will start to show on my face.

"Tell me something," I say plaintively.

"What?" he says, as though I am about to ask a question and my comment was a prompt.

"No," I laugh, feeling distracted already, but needing more, wanting more, always more of him, "tell me something. Tell me about yourself."

"Okay," he says, his voice a little distant. "What do you want to know?"

 _ **!EVERYTHING!**_

"What is your family like?" I ask lightly.

He nods slowly, as though gathering it all up in his mind. I am the closest I have ever been to wrecking the car. It is finally happening!

"My parents married very young," he says, emotions and memories and expression playing about his face like living art, "not even out of high school young. My dad was sort of outlandish and free with his emotion and my mother was down to earth and sort of distant. Eventually, my dad decided that he wasn't satisfied in Forks, they divorced and he moved away. They had me visit back and forth until I started school, then I stayed with my mom until about ten years ago, when I decided that I liked living with my dad more than my mom. I've lived here, California, and Arizona, but mostly in Phoenix. My dad loves his sun, and I can appreciate the warmer climate."

"And your mother?" I ask, hoping that is all the prompting he needs.

"Carrie is sort of..." he hesitates, "simplistic. She knows what she likes and sticks with it. I can relate to that, but I guess I don't know what I'm like yet. I'm still trying to figure that out. Anyway, what about you? What are your parents like?"

NO! I am momentarily torn between want him to keep speaking and wanting him to know me just as much as I know him. I stop at his house and turn off the engine, sitting back and deciding that I can deny him nothing when he looks so... vulnerable.

"My parents died quite some time ago," I say, regret for their death overshadowing my current patrons. "My new parents are two of the best people, better than I reasonably could imagined. They love me and care about, often better than I think I deserve."

"Everyone deserves love," he responses, immediately and passionately.

I look over at him, trying to keep my expression polite, sociable, but not succeeding.

I think of all the acts I have committed, all the false deeds and terrible doings. Poetic murders, theft for personal convenience, the cruel judgments, the selfishness, the monstrosities. How can I ever believe his words to be true?

"People do some truly heinous, horrific things to one another," I say, more stating a fact than arguing.

"True," he says, nodding, "and that doesn't mean they don't deserve love. I can't love everybody because I'm just as imperfect, but they still deserve it. There isn't such a thing as being unworthy of love."

His words hollow me. For the barest moment, I consider the image of the two of us. He is human, leaning with his back against the wall, trying to lift me more than slightly and failing fantastically. We are together, his arms around me, my hands upon him, our lips intermingling, both of us smiling. He can love me, and I have not doubt that it will happen. But I can't let go, I can't give into it. If I do, he may not die, but he will become what I am, a monster. How can allow it? How could I ever love him the way I do now if I can't even accept my own existence, what I am?

"What about your other family?" he asks, as though to break the tension. "What are you siblings like?"

I think of them, confused, standing in the rain. Alice would know what happened, but how much would she share with the others? She did like her little jokes.

"My brothers and sisters would like very much not to have to wait in the rain for their ride," I inform him, then wish that there was some way I could take him with me, or go back, leave the car and take him back his truck and stay. But I can't do either. With his burning scent in my nose is more than enough reason to keep these visits limited and controlled, despite, perhaps because of, how much I want to be utterly unrestrained with him.

"Right," he says, shifting about to prepare to leave, but then asks, "What about my truck?"

I know him well enough now to know his chief concern is undue attention. It is a little worrisome how well he might fit in with my family.

"I'll make sure it is returned before your mother gets home," I reply. "She'll have no reason to question you about its absence."

"Okay," he says, handing over his key, and looking around as though trying to find an excuse. An excuse to what?

"Will you be there tomorrow?" he asks, a reluctant yearning in his eyes.

He doesn't want to leave. He wants to see me again, and soon. His death is the furthest from my thoughts it as ever been. Now would be the safest opportunity to have my lips touch him that there has ever been.

But, I can't be too eager with him, ever. He is too important to reality.

"I wasn't invited," I say.

He looks more than a little unhappy at my answer, "But I want you to come."

I smile wider. Why must he make the safe choice feel so impossible? Why must I not kiss him!? I need a distraction from him for the first time to keep from doing too much!

"Mickie wasn't at all happy with me showing up today and taking care of you," I point out. "If I showed up tomorrow, I don't think she could stand it."

Suddenly, the idea sounds more appealing than I ever would have thought. I am sorely tempted to cancel plans with Emily and show up anyway, incidental, after they are underway and Mickie thinks that she is rid of me for the day.

"Where are you going, anyway?" I ask, formulating plans.

"First Beach in La Push," he replies, sounding hopeful.

My plans evaporate and my smile turns sad. There goes that idea.

"Alas," I relent, "it is not meant to be. I do, in fact, have my own plans with Emily tomorrow. She wants to go camping, and I have agreed to accompany her."

Saturday plans sparks a thought, and I can't help but have at least one more teasing remark on this particular subject.

"I'm sure you can imagine having plans getting in the way of other peoples' desired Saturday activities," I comment.

He sighs heavily, "Don't remind me."

My laughter stays mostly inside my own head. Mostly. Then a very interesting thought enters my head.

"Would you have turned me down?" I ask.

His mouth falls open. His expression quickly becomes one of my favorites, and I file it away as one to recall when I miss him the most.

"Considering at the time you were doing everything you could to ignore me, probably," he says, rather honestly, which I like. "Now, I don't know. I am really not a dance sort of person."

I think about it. I suddenly want to see him dance. No, not see; I want to dance with him, slowly, pressed again him, simple and close. Together. I wonder if I will ever get to have such a thing.

"Now," he says, "as much as I would prefer otherwise, I really should let you go. I don't have any siblings, but I'm sure that having them mad at you isn't fun."

I laugh loudly. It is true; Rory has had his share of fits over the years. The destruction of my Ferrari Two Fifty Testa Rossa easily tops the list. He eventually replaced it, but it still wasn't the same.

"No," I say. "It isn't."

He looks momentarily unsure, as though he wanted to say something but wasn't sure how to or how I might react. He seems to relent, and from his posture and manner is preparing to say his goodbyes, when I stop him. I really don't want to say goodbye yet.

"Could you do something for me?" I ask, momentarily having no idea what I would like to ask, but knowing that I need to ask for something from him, something I can keep in mind until I see him again, and then I have it.

"Perhaps," he says, worry evident in his every feature.

"As much as I would like to watch your face should I ask you this jokingly," I say, trying not to laugh and spoil the comment at the very idea of his face, "I would much rather ask you it earnestly, in hopes that that you'll consider it seriously."

I think about every possible plight he might get up to in my absence, what could happen if I am not there to defend against it. I feel suddenly completely unprepared for just how long this weekend could be.

"Please," I openly beg, in utter desperation, "don't do anything overtly dangerous on your trip. I would be... unhappy... should you injure yourself this weekend."

I think my response would likely involve reaping bloody restitution from Mickie.

I can see him preparing an impersonal retort when I cut him off, trying to put as much behind the words as I can, all the emotion I truly feel at the very thought of him being harmed.

"Please," I say. "Be safe. For me."

I don't think I could have conveyed more without becoming terrified.

"Alright," he says, his breathing uneven and his expression serious. "I'll try to be safe."

I am relieved, or at least as much as I can be.

"Thank you," I say finally.

I can't bring myself to say goodbye, and he does not either. We wordlessly come to the conclusion that we do not need to. This isn't over. I hope it never will be. I watch him dash to the porch, nearly falling, for which I nearly dash out to him, preparing to rip the door off again to catch him, but he catches himself and makes it under cover before turning back to me and watching. He can't see me through the now heavy rain, but he looks where he knows I am.

"I love you," I say, wishing that I could say it to him directly, wishing that he could hear it if I did.

I back away and head back to school, drawing as much of his scent into me as I can with every breath. As I pull up I see that Alice is standing there with his bag as well as hers, left behind in Biology.

I roll down the window, "Nurses office."

"No danger," she says.

I shake my head, "You need a different definition of danger."

I toss his keys to her, she catches them and smiles as she head for the truck.

"What gives?" asks Emily the rest get in, and in a breath, her eyes widen.

"I see!" she says. "So, is he still alive?"

"Yes!" I say in dismay.

"Whoa!" she says back. _I was just asking!_

"I love him," I exclaim.

Emily snorts, and Jasper ignores me.

Rory's mind is too open for a moment for me not to see his jealousy, and this time he knows it. Luckily, he covers his acts better and no one else notices.

 _You better not tell her,_ he thinks. I turn my attention back to Emily.

"We are leaving as soon as we get home," I say quickly.

"What?" she demands. "Why?"

"So we can come back even faster," I say back.

"But," she complains, "we aren't going back to school until Thursday because of the weather. I thought we could make a real trip out of it."

I shake my head, "I am not leaving him alone that long. I can't."

"What is the big deal?" she asks sounding as dense as she sometimes is.

"Imagine leaving Rory alone for that long," I say.

"I am," she points out.

"Try thinking about doing it if he was still human," I specify.

She looks less sanguine about it.

"Okay," she says. "I get your point. But lets at least make it a good short trip. You aren't going to be obsessing over him the whole time, are you?"

I drove away, making no promises.


	6. Chapter 6: Long Weekend

"This is ridiculous!" says Emily, dropping the body of her prey to the ground.

"What?" I ask. Looking around, trying to find something to distract me from my distractions.

Almost as though without my consent, a portion of my brain has gone about finding, list, categorizing and cross-checking all the ways in which Ben might die. Naturally, there is a large portion of those devoted specifically to causes that could have been avoided had I been present. I keep calculating how long I can stay out here to satisfy Emily before returning to him. The time I think I can stand keeps reducing until I am actually fighting not to run back this very moment.

"This was supposed to be a fun trip!" says Emily. "What is wrong with you?! You look like you are going rip yourself in half. Spit it out!"

"I love him!" I said, shrieking it out. "Don't you see!? I love him and it tears me apart to be away from him. And he doesn't even know! I am going to go insane, thinking of it. He is human. He might die in some many different ways. Have your seriously thought about it, the number of acts, situations, and circumstances that can kill them? He might end, without me there to protect him, and never knowing what I feel for him, how much he matters to me! How can I run around here with you and not think of it?"

"I think you are taking this too seriously," she says, rubbing at a drop of blood on the hem of her shirt. It would have been less at odds if she wasn't completely splattered with gore.

"Live a little!" she says. "You can't be with him ever hour of every day."

"I know," I say, "I know. But being this far apart is hard. If I was closer, it wouldn't be so bad."

"Alice is keeping an eye on him," she say. "She won't let anything happen-"

"He is at Le Push," I point out. "Even if she did see something, there isn't anything she could do."

"The same could be said of you," say Emily. "You couldn't do anything eith-"

"If I was in Forks," I say, "he would be with me."

She shakes her head, "No, he wouldn't, and you know it."

She pokes me in my luminous skin. I force out a sharp sigh.

"This is so frustrating," I say. "I want him. I want to be with him. I want to tell him everything."

She looks around, "So, why don't you?"

"Because," I say dejectedly, "he wouldn't believe me."

"Why should that matter?" she asks.

I look at her, "What is the point of speaking if your audience is deaf?"

She considers it, "True. So, then, don't say anything."

"I am not planning on it," I say, "not until he can hear it."

"That really isn't up to you," she says with a hesitant air. "Think about it; he isn't deaf. You could walk up to him right now and say what you feel, and why wouldn't he hear it?"

"Because..." I say, realizing she is right, "because he would choose not to believe it."

"Yeah," she says. "You can't make him believe you. Do you really want to take his choice away from him?"

I shake my head, "No. Of course not."

His choices. His wishes. His life. These things are precious. How could I have been so arrogant as to think what I want matters more than what he does?

"All you can do is be yourself and let him figure it out," she says. "Tell him what you can, when you can, and trust that it will all work out."

I am calm. I haven't been calm since I left him. Now I am seeing that I am no less at fault than Ben. I realize that I am choosing to freak out, just as he is choosing not to think he is worth caring about. If I freak out, Emily will be more likely to let me leave and I will feel justified in doing so. I find that I don't want to do that, to be that sort of person. I want to go back because I miss him and I want to see him, and even if I can't have everything that I want, I at least want to have the things that I can straightforwardly. Now that I am more relaxed, I actually find that I wanting to be affectionate towards Ben, physically. This can't be a good sign.

"Stay," says my big sister. "Hunt with me. Let's have some fun."

"One more hunt," I say. "A real one. Then I will be going back."

She smiles at me, and despite my laughing protestations, she picks me up and hugs me, smearing the remnants of her kill on me.

We do the things properly, slinking like deadly goddesses of the wild, swooping down on unsuspecting prey, gleaming like diamonds in the wash of the setting sun. I even go a little overboard for her benefit, allowing the blood to run a little since I am already dashed in red. We are sisters of the hunt, savage and powerful and free. By the time we have finished, she holds me to her, and we don't fuss over the mess, loving our moment together.

"I am happy for you, girlie," she says, stroking my hair. "I hope that you do get to tell him everything."

"If I did," I inquire, "would you mind?"

"Heck no," she laughs. "I mean, he is going to join us at some point."

"If I don't kill him," I say with equal part sarcasm and dejection.

She tilts her head thoughtfully, "I don't know. It can go either way, right? So tell him. Either he will accept you and you two will fall in love forever, or he can't accept you and you will end up killing him."

I look at her like she has completely lost her mind.

"Hear me out," she says with a smile completely at odds with my emotions. "You can know, right now, how this will go. Ask. Tell. Be honest. Either he will or he won't. You are worrying for nothing!"

I frown, "And the Volturi will just ignore it if I should do so?" I demand.

She shrugs, "Why should they care? It is exactly what they do with their humans, right? Alice has seen the way it will go."

I shake my head. He will have the fourth option.

"Alice can be wrong," I state as fact.

She eyes me, "That is just stupid. She is only as sure as you are. You can't avoid this unless you stop being you. Are you really going to leave Ben?"

Leaving him is an impossibility. Leaving him human is a necessity.

I hug her one more time, "Thank you, big sister. I needed this more than you know."

"Go," she soothes. "Find your boyfriend. Oh, and can I be there when you tell him that you have been spending your nights in his room with him?"

I sweep her feet out from under her before I take off, her laughing and landing squarely back upon them.

"Love you!" I call as I disappear.

When I get back to Forks, I stop at home just long enough to run through the river, ditch my clothes, dash through it again, run fast enough to dry and strip the river residue from me, change into fresh clothes, finding them folded at the foot of my bed. Then, I go to find him.

I am not far from his house when I am nearly slammed off my feet.

"Ben?" I ask aloud before I can stop myself. His scent is powerful, especially since I have been away, especially since I was not expecting it. I breath deep, acclimatizing quickly since it is so fresh he might actually be nearby by. What is he doing out here at night!? Of all things! I asked him not to do anything dangerous!

I breathe him in, calm, remembering that he has no reason to fear the night. Humans believe they have conquered all such things to be feared in the dark. Ben is no different. I swear, if I find him still out here, I am going to kiss him, then kill him.

Alas, he is perfectly safe at home when I arrive. The shower is running. I consider lying out on his bed and waiting for him. And the line of possibilities and fantasies that run through my head are hard to ignore, more so since he has the house to himself. I can recognize that I would not be anywhere near controlled enough to do that. But, one day I might. One day, he might even be happy to see me in his bed. The thought is equally thrilling and stilling.

I wait for him to come to bed, and listen until he is asleep. I am just settling comfortably into his rocking chair when his mother arrives home. She checks on him, which I watch from the closet, as she sees that he is alive and well, taking a moment to stroke his hair and tell him that she loves him before returning to her own room and bed.

I settle back in, happier and more relaxed than I can ever remember being, simply to be in the same room with him, watching him sleep. He is lovely, but after an hour, I can tell that tonight, he is restless. He doesn't wake, but I am very cautious as he tosses and turns.

"No!" he says, barely loud enough to be heard outside his room. "Don't hurt her!"

Is he having nightmares?

I think of many different things I could do, but almost all of them involve selfish things like waking him up and asking him what the dreams were about. I even consider leaving him warm milk by his bed under the pretense that his mother had done it, but it would be too easy for him to talk to her and ask. I think about brute forcing the password on his phone to get his number and calling him, but I have no way of establishing how I got the number in the first place other than to admit breaking into his room.

Finally, I settle for doing the most dangerous thing I have done so far. I carefully settle beside him on the bed. He could easily discover me here, simply by moving. It would be too hard to move quickly without waking him. From there, I carefully brush my fingers though his hair, keeping clear of him, not letting the cold of me spread to him.

He calms down into sleep, and after nearly an hour of the best moments of my life, he wakes. I am thinking about finding some way to contact him at night and still keep up our cover story of camping, when he bolts upright, out of his dream. I manage to slip to the floor, and before he can do more than bend his legs, I am hidden in the closet again.

I am lost. I will be found, be spotted. I have to find a way to keep him quiet without alerting his mother, hopefully after I come up with a rational reason for me to be here, in his room, when I realize that he is crying. He is sitting on his bed, his legs curled against himself, his face against his knees, quietly shaking and sobbing. I am actually leaning over the bed, my hand extended, going to comfort him before I remember that I can't do that and have to quickly hide again.

What was moments ago was one of the best moments of my life is now the worst. I cannot stand his pain. I cannot stand the idea of him so close and not being able to touch him, to hold him in his grief, whatever it may be. I wish that I could be the one at risk, not him. What I wouldn't give to be there with him! I would gladly risk my life.

After what seems to be the longest twenty-six minutes of my life, he returns to his sleeping position, barely wiping at his tears. As soon as he is fully asleep, I decide to risk what little I can. I investigate the house and find a blanket in a hallway cupboard. Taking the blanket, I fold it about and beside him until it will protect him from the temperature of my body when I lie beside him. I put my arms around him. I hold him in sleep. He is still and almost content for the remainder of the night. Just before dawn, when I hear his mother start to return to wakefulness, I refold the blanket and return it to where I found it.

The whole day finds me in the woods outside his house. He does his homework, from the sound of it, and laundry, as well as house work. Then, to my surprise and allocation, he does yard work, and I actually get to see him. He bumbles through it endearingly, and luckily he manages to get through the whole ordeal with his limbs intact, not that I had any doubts.

At length, he finishes, puts all the equipment away, and returns to the house for a wash and preparing a meal in the kitchen. He cooks? I begin making plans to improve my own cooking skills. He is setting the table when his mother finally arrives home.

I take the opportunity to listen intently to his mother's mind. It is strange, though not so strange as his, and maybe, upon inspection at length, I might find some key that will reveal his mind to me, if even as limited as hers is. At the moment, all I am getting is a weary pleasant thought of homeyness, followed by the vaguest hints of mistrust.

Her voice is somewhat skeptical as she asks, "What did you do?"

"Huh?" I hear him ask in return.

"You mowed the lawn, which is something I haven't down since summer," she points out, doing something in the kitchen involving aluminum foil and the ice box. "You cleaned the entire upstairs. Now I come home and supper is ready and on the table. If you didn't do anything, what do you want?"

"Nothing," he says with undeniable exasperation. "I just didn't have much to do today. I got... bored."

"Bored?" she asks with much skepticism. I don't blame her. Something is different about him. I just can't put my finger on what.

"Yes," he affirms.

Her mind shifts, something like surprise, followed by a scent, like flowers, something like young affection sifting through before she says, "Oh."

"'Oh'?" he asks, sounding almost scared. "Oh what? What oh?"

"Nothing," she dismisses quickly. "Nothing at all."

"Mom!" I laugh aloud, no one hearing me but the bird that takes flight at the sudden sound. He sounds like a typical teenage boy, a boy that I love.

"It's not my place," she says sagely as she finishes up whatever it was that she was doing.

"What's not your place?" he asks, sounding indignant now. "What do you think is going on?"

I hear the sound of food being placed on plates and I catch that same girlish affection from her mind again, this time coupled with a succinct pulse of maternal displeasure. Then, it clicks. She knows about me. She knows her son well enough that, even though it seems likely that he hasn't spoken to her about me, that she knows.

"What's her name?" she asks, sounding very much like a police officer to me.

"Who's name?" Ben asks, his voice high and scared. He definitely didn't tell her anything.

"See?" she says right back. "Not of my place."

Their meal continues in silence. I am about to explode with curiosity. At last, they speak again, but it is only her saying, "No, I've got the dishes. You've done enough."

I hear him head for the stairs and I am preparing to run home to change and check in with Alice when she adds, "Benji."

He and I both stop and turn, listening.

"Look," she says, a bit timidly. "I'm no good at any of this. Talking about feelings and stuff, that was always your dad's area. But you know, if you need to talk, we can talk. I'm not going to be good at it, but I can try."

She knows. I only wish that I knew what she knows. It would be such a resource, this mind. I am almost tempted to try and track down his father, interview him under some pretense to learn more about his son. Or, I could just ask Ben when I next speak to him. On Thursday. Argh!

"Okay, I know," I hear him say. "Thanks, mom."

I run home, knowing that there is little I will miss between now and returning. Once I have arrived and changed, finding a note from Alice saying she will be out hunting with Jasper until tomorrow night, I am about to head back when Katherine meets me at the door.

"May I speak with you?" she asks, coming with me as we moved to the woods near the Hawkins' home.

"Of course," I say so low that only she would hear me, even if humans had been present.

"I am not sure what you are doing is entire fair," she says, as quietly, her tone careful and not so much concerned as it was instructive, as she usually spoke such things to me.

"How so?" I ask.

"You are acting towards Ben without his consent," she points out. "You are both invading his life and his home without asking if your behavior is something he wants."

I study her face. She is right, and she isn't trying to change my mind. She is letting me make my own decisions. The trouble is, I know what am doing. I know that this isn't fair to him. I could justify my behavior by saying that he wouldn't mind, but it would be simply that; a justification. And, what is more, my mother pointing this out to me does not give me any intensive to change my behavior. Why should I change if there is no downside to my behavior that I can feel or know?

"I don't understand," I say.

"What don't you understand?" she asks.

"I don't want to change my behavior," I say, "and it isn't just because I don't want to be apart from him. He sleeps better when I am near. I saw that myself last night."

"You are suggesting," she continues, "that you are doing this for his benefit?"

"I believe so," I say. "He is safer when I am there, he is more comfortable, if only because I can see to his needs while he sleeps without his waking. I can show him affection that he-"

"-may not want," she says.

I looked aghast at her, "Why wouldn't he-"

"He may want it," she said, "and he may not. I don't know because I'm not him."

I stood, thinking a long time about what she was saying.

"I see what you are saying," I say to her, "and you are right. He has the right to choose. And he will. I cannot be a part of his life until the sun has gone and I can be beside him again. Until then, this is all I get. I cannot simply relinquish my only connection to him until we return to the status quo. I know that there are risks, potential consequences. But I am willing to endure them. I don't want to be without him."

She nods, "You shall learn from this, at least. I love you, child, and I want you to be happy."

"I know mom," I said, embracing her. "But I don't think I can be happy now without him."

She touches my face as the embrace breaks, "You can. Happiness will always be there for you to find. All you have to do is look for it."

She vanishes. I turn back to him. I cannot let go of him. That sort of scares me. But I am more afraid to be without him. I am aware that this is not the healthier way to live. But, I can't imagine living any other way.


	7. Chapter 7: Three Days

Three Days. It sounds so very simple when you state it thusly. Even quantifying it in time, it's just seventy-two hours, four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes, two hundred and fifty-nine thousand two hundred seconds. It is point zero zero seven nine one eight nine zero three five eight percent of my existence on this planet. How can it possibly feel like the inverse is true!?

I left Ben early that morning, knowing that I was going to spend the majority of the day in the woods outside of school. I arrive at school around the time I usually do, out of habit, only I do not leave the trees or come where any mortal might see me. I sit and listen and wait.

Ben arrives and parks as he usually does. He slept well the night before, much more restful, but now he seems a little anxious somehow, jumpy almost, but also eager. He spends the time walking to the school looking around quite a bit, and it is then that I realize that he doesn't know I won't be in school. I watch through the course of the morning as his veiled enthusiasm dwindles and ebbs until he makes his way to lunch. As soon as he sets eyes on our empty table, he seems to implode. But then, he whips around, looking at the table where I was sitting on Friday. Again, he slumps as if in defeat.

I am practically ripping up trees in my distress. I didn't know it was possible to be so completely two things at once, elated at the fact that he is so bereft without me there and miserable at his misery. I want him almost as much as if I was smelling him that very moment. I consider going without bathing or changing clothing for a few days, just so the scent from my nights will stick with me, helping to ground me and keep him with me.

"Hey," says Jesse, who's mind I happen to be listening through at the moment. "Movie, tomorrow. You in?"

Ben looks over at him, "What?"

"Movie?" Jesse repeats as though checking for a head injury. "Tomorrow? After school? Port Angeles? Are you wanting to go?"

Ben considers for like two seconds, "Absolutely."

 _Huh, that's odd. I thought I might have to play it up more._

"Just so you know," he warns, "Lauren is going."

"Don't care," says Ben, shaking his head, looking around the cafeteria.

 _Really? Huh, what is up with that guy today._

But, unfortunately for Jesse, he doesn't care enough to pay attention or ask further. Doesn't he know what a gift he has!? He gets to sit next to Ben and speak to him and ask him questions and TALK TO HIM! I would literally pay the value of a month's salary for every job in Forks to be able to ask Ben one question in the moment and have an honest response. I would pay that and more gladly.

If I was hoping my day would improve, I was sorely mistaken

 _Hey, Little Miss Fake Tits isn't here! Now is my chance! Ask him out! Ask him out!_

That time, I did rip a tree out of the ground. It wasn't a big tree.

Her voice quavered as she walks up to him and says, "Heya."

He looks to her briefly, smiling and saying hi before going back to watching the doorway, hoping to see me before the bell rings.

 _He's waiting for her, isn't he!? I need to head this off fast before she gets her hooks into my Benny._

The tree might have been in many pieces by now. Enough that it was no longer recognizable as a tree.

"Edwina isn't here today?" she asks rhetorically, her feigned concern enough that I am contemplating how much trouble I might be in if I left her brand new Dodge Neon up on the school roof.

"I guess not," Ben says piteously. I wish I had a pillow to scream into. Given my current level of distress, I might combust a pillow. I would need something more substantial to press my face into. Like granite.

"I'll keep you company," she says.

He smiles, "That's very kind of you Mickie, but that's okay. Really."

"I don't mind," she insists. _God, what does he see in her? Hell, with that much money, I could buy pretty too._

Would you look at that? There isn't any more air left in any of her tires. How on earth did that happen?

He tolerates her until the bell rings after which Mrs. Banner ushers her to her seat. I might have enjoyed how much this irritated her.

"Enjoying yourself?"

I turn to see Alice walking towards me, and old style picnic basket under one arm, a parasol draped across the other, Jasper at her side, wincing as he approaches. Suddenly, a wave of utter serene relaxation flows over me. I am fine. Everything is alright with the world.

I laugh, "Was it really that bad?"

Alice grins, "It was either Jasper to calm you down or Em to hold you down. This one involved less property damage."

It is my turn to wince.

"I appreciate this option as well," Jasper said a bit teasingly. "I was starting to feel you at home. If you need support, just ask. We are all in this together."

Keeping my thoughts purely clinical and without emotion, I carefully sift through their thoughts. Alice is trying a new tact, in which she helps show what doing for other might benefit them. Apparently, Jasper is feeling more and more unsettled by what is going on, and is having trouble empathizing with me and Ben and has turned from considering preemptive strikes to considering preemptive retreat. I am grateful, genuinely, and not just because I would miss them both terribly. I respect the ingenuity of helping both of us at once to get what we want. Jasper understands why she is asking him to do this and he accepts it and her. He understands that doing what is best for those he loves is not always what they want or what he can stand. I can relate to that.

I give Alice a knowing look, and she just beams, pulling a picnic blanket from the basket and walking to relatively flat space surrounded by trees but clear overhead. We three sit and she curls her feet girlishly under her, opening the parasol and basking in the dull sun that is still enough to send shards of light dancing off her skin.

"These three days are going to be tough," I say aloud. Alice continues basking and it takes me a moment to turn to Jasper.

"Tough for whom?" he asks.

I think about it, "For me and for him, I believe. From every indication I have witnessed, he misses me too, if not as deeply."

He shrugs at me, "Missing someone isn't an emotion, so I wouldn't be able to tell. Even so, emotion is more ephemeral. Magnitude means little. Either something is felt or it is not. The range of my sense has more to do with my attachment to the individual. Some strength might be attributed to how attractive or repulsive the sensation is, but that has so much more to do with what the emotion is in the first place. I can't tell you if he misses you. What I can tell you is that the emotions you were displaying have little to do with the fact that you miss him."

I look at him, momentarily taken aback.

He looks at me, "Do you know how many basic emotions there are?"

Ekman came to mind, "Six. Happiness, sadness, fear, disgust, surprise, and anger."

He smiles and shakes his head, "Two."

I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Of course the others exist," he said, "and they are vitally important, but at the root, there is only two. Love and pain."

I start to understand what he is expressing.

"They color everything you do," he says, reaching to take Alice's hand. "If you feel love, you won't act unnecessarily in self-defense. You won't see your options as binary, evil and less evil. You won't attempt to control or to keep to you everything you will fear to lose. Events won't cause you nearly as much distress as they would have otherwise. Things are much easier if you feel loved."

He kisses Alice's proffered cheek and she strokes his hand. I get an intriguing notion.

"Can you make others feel loved?" I ask.

"Oh, no," he laughs. "I can't get that deep. I can help with higher emotions, but I can't increase or decrease love, or pain."

I get what he is saying. I am in pain. Not a lot of it perhaps, but enough. I am not sure what is causing, but I know what I am afraid of.

"I am afraid of not having Ben," I say. "I am so used to being a monster who isn't worth anything, I believe that I can't have him. I could, but I am so afraid that if I don't do this right, I will never happen."

"You want it to be real," says Alice. "So much that you are willing to overlook your own actions for what they really are."

I think about it. Wanting Ben does not benefit him. Vandalizing Mickie's car doesn't benefit him. Tearing up trees didn't benefit him. It was all about me, and not because I am inherently selfish. I am acting as such because, deep down, coming from a place of pain, I truly believe that I won't ever be with Ben because people in pain don't get to be happy or loved.

"What can I do?" I ask, oddly calm and content for something that would normally make me feel raw and vulnerable at the very least.

Alice hands Jasper her parasol and scooted up to me, putting her small arms around me.

"Remember that you are loved," she says.

Jasper shifts to my other side, and while he is not an affectionate brother, he places a hand on my shoulder and I feel soothed and open.

"I thought you couldn't make anyone feel loved," I point out.

He smiles, "I can't. I can make it easier for you to feel loved, but that isn't the same as creating love. We love you, whether or not you can feel it. The love is there, and I can tamp down the worry and the fear and let you have the room to feel it. Rest easy, sister. We know it is hard, but you needn't worry so. We're here. We support you. The more we can do to help you, the less Ben will need to do. You can let him be him, doing what he will do. You won't need to depend on him."

I think about that. "But, how can I love him if I don't need him?"

Alice squeezes me a little, "What do you want from him? Really, thinking about it. Be honest."

I think. Hard. "I want him to love me. I want him to look past the fact that I am a monster. I want him to join with us, be one of us. I want him forever, even if it costs him his soul."

She nods, "And if that isn't what he wants?"

"But, he will-"

Alice shakes her head, "Nope. You know how my sight works. If you really chose to leave, you could. If he really decided that he didn't want you, he could. Any number of unforeseen things can come here and change the course of the future, simply because someone does not yet have all the information the need to make their own choice. What if that isn't what he wants?"

I consider, "Then, I would be hurt."

"Why?" Alice asked, earnest. "How exactly would he hurt you?"

My eyes go wide. The lesson I learned with Emily flashes into stark relief, "It wouldn't hurt me. I would just feel the pain I already have, that I feel deep down, because it would prove that I am right and if I am hurt badly enough, he might see that and change his mind."

"Yes," said Alice.

Heaving a deep breath, I let go. Ben gets to decide what he wants. I cannot allow myself to get in the way of that. He owes me nothing. I owe him nothing. If he is going to be with me, it will be by choice, and by choice alone, not because I tricked him into it. I start to understand why so many of these children trade with each other. They don't know any better, and because not doing so is hard. It makes me feel vulnerable and imperfect and very well might result in me not getting what I want. And, the very idea of me being okay with not having Ben love me back scares me more than the idea of him rejecting me.

We stay where we are for several hours. I lose track of time, of everything, content to bask in the sun and in the adoring acceptance of my adopted siblings. Long after night has begone to fall, we go home.

I hug mom and dad. I tell them that I love them, and they tell me the same, Emanuel especially bursting with the gesture that he returns in kind. I let Emily swing me around and spend a few minutes with Rory in the garage, though he studiously ignores me, trying desperately to hide just how much he enjoys the attention. Finally, I go see Ben.

He is tossing and turning, saying my name over and over, as though searching for me. Without thinking, I kneel beside his bed and take his hand. His heart rate and breathing momentarily spike, but he remains asleep. He settles, eases back down, and I remain as I am. I let go when his turning draws him away, but as soon as he is searching for me again, I move to reclaim his hand. Before I leave, I gently lean in to kiss his hair, knowing that I will talk with him again, be with him again, and that he will be free to do whatever he will. I feel just how much more meaningful it would be for him to choose me of his own free will and realize that it is truly what I want, even if it scares me, even if it means risking him saying no. I love him so much.

When I leave him, I am thrilled. I am not worried. I don't need to follow him anymore. I check in on him from time to time, but it is only to see what he is up to, to know what has been going on. The next morning, when I see Mickie approach him, finally getting up the nerve to ask him out, I go and find Alice, who kicks a slightly annoyed Jasper out of their room while she sits me down and does my hair for me, soothing and consoling me as she combs out my locks and carefully puts it in a simple yet immaculate french braid.

"Heya," she says as I listen through her mind, tuning out any negative thoughts she might have about me. I am surprised that I can still pick out her thoughts from the house. It takes a lot of effort, so much so that I start to feel tired, but I can still do it.

"Hello," says Ben pleasantly, yet his expression seems somehow strained. She doesn't notice.

"I was wondering," she edges in carefully, "What are you doing tonight?"

"I am going out to the movies with the guys," he says conversationally, completely unaware of what she is getting at, which is just as soothing as Alice is at the moment.

"Oh," she says, as defeated as if he had just told her that going on a date with her is the last thing he would ever do. "I was going to ask you out."

Ben looks at her, and he seems to be trying to make a decision. I can tell that he is amping himself up for something undesirable. Finally, he says, "Mickie, there are several reasons why that isn't a good idea."

She feels rather huffy. I feel rather floaty.

"Name one!" she says, a little testily.

He makes an expression like the answer is obvious, "You are already going to the dance with someone else."

"So?" she said. "I would have gone with you if you were going. That doesn't mean we still can't go out."

He sighs, "Yeah, it does."

"Why?" she asks.

He waits a moment, as though he is giving her the opportunity to get there on her own. From inside her head, I can attest to the fact that she has no chance. None.

"Okay, look," he says. "Do you think that there might be the faintest, more remote possibility that your date might mind?"

 _Why would he-? Wait, what? I'm confused._

"Seriously, Mickie," he says, again, as though it were obvious, "are you blind?"

 _Wait... Jesse? Wait, what!?_

I tune her out as she starts a line of rather vulgar and distasteful fantasies, the same she usually had about Ben, but this time with Jesse in place of him. At the last moment, catch one of her with the both of them, and I shiver. Human predilections can be so strange sometimes.

I spend the rest of the day reading, studying how to cook in detail, understanding foodstuffs and how heat and pressure affect them. I finish a few dozen books that I hadn't gotten to while listening to a few albums that I hadn't heard yet, and then continue working on the lullaby at the piano, with Ben's sleeping form swimming in my mind's eye. I swing by Ben's house to see him off to the movies, just in time to hear Jesse call him and let him know that the movie plans were canceled so that he could go out with Mickie. They reschedule for the following night. I just hope that this will lead to Mickie leaving Ben be, though I don't hold my breath.

I am surprised just how much Ben seems to be disheartened by the cancellation. He spends a lot of time looking over what sounds like school books, doing some spot cleaning, doing a lot of sighing and huffing. I am not sure what is wrong and I am thinking about going to knock on his door when his mother comes home. They have their meal, and I decide to go for a run and swing by the house to change before coming back once he is asleep.

I spend the night much as I had the night before, a routine forming. I don't join him on the bed again, not until he asks me when he is awake. But I take his hand every time he is restless after he withdraws from me. Tonight I notice that it takes longer for him to pull away, and there is a reluctance to it. Also, he becomes restless almost immediately afterward. He says my name not only as though he is searching for me, but with relief when my hands are on his, contentedly. I decide that being separated has gone on long enough. Wednesday, the last night we must be apart, I will orchestrate bumping into him at Port Angeles. From there, I will offer my number, email, any means that he might want to have contact with me, and I will speak with him, ask him my questions, spend time with him as I want to so desperately, and will confirm my return to school the following day.

Wednesday feels somehow longer than the other two days put together, but I find ways to pass the time. I hunt and I chat with Emanuel. I spare with Jasper and Emily, I let Alice fix my hair back into the French braid, and I dress in the yellow silk empire dress that falls to the knee and tan leather jacket, with gloves in the pockets, and simple black Italian boots. Alice dutifully assures me that all is well.

"The sun will still be up when you get there," she says, "but that won't last too long. After that, you are free to go chat him up. Have a good time! Let me know how it goes."

"Won't you be watching?" I ask.

She shakes her head, "No, I want to hear all about it from you. Love you!"

I get in the Mercedes, driving after the four boys, Ben, Angelo, Lauren and Jesse as they drive to the city. The way is familiar, so while I drive, I have no problem focusing a large quantity of my attention on them. Ben is in the back seat with Angelo, while Jesse is driving and Lauren is given nearly free rein with the radio, which is loud and uninspired. Ben exchanges pleasantries with Angelo, asking about his little sisters and about his date. Turns out that he is going stag, as it were. This strikes me as very odd indeed, considering his mind is so pleasant, even enjoyable to use when looking after Ben. There must be something I can do about that.

I am considering a few possibilities when Ben completely derails my train of thought.

"Do you know if the Cullens have left or something?" he asks covertly. They both glance towards the front, towards Lauren. He has not overheard.

Angelo really surprises me. He doesn't latch onto the question. He doesn't consider it as a bit of gossip. He doesn't consider the reasons behind it. He considers it as a question from a friend, and nothing else. I further cultivate plans to figure out who he could possibly want to go to the dance with.

"No," Angelo says. "But they disappear just about any time the weather is nice. Hiking and camping and all that. I've seen them in at the Newtons' store. I swear, they owe like have their annual revenue to the Cullens."

This explanation is one that could have saved Ben a lot of worry, methinks. Why didn't I think to say anything before I left Friday!?

Ben considers this, his head tilting in something like relief.

"But they're still around?" he asks, his head coming up again. "They haven't left or anything?"

"No, not that I've heard," replies Angelo, willing to leave it at that.

I owe more to Angelo than I can easily repay. But then Lauren turns down the music. His mind is vindictively slanted towards the rumors the Taylor has been propagating, with heavy inclinations towards blaming Ben for her interest. I suppress a hiss.

"So," muses Lauren. "What's up with you Ben?"

"Nothing much," he replies, sounding more cordial than Lauren deserves. "How are things going with you, man?"

He gives Ben a contemptible look. Ben looks as though he is trying to reserve judgment until Lauren fires the first shot.

"Nothing?" he asks snidely. "You have nothing going on? You are nothing?"

"Dude," Jesse objects. "Don't be a dick!"

"I'm not being a dick," Lauren says with almost singsong defensiveness. "I just find it hard to believe that he has nothing going on, that nothing is happening with him, that his life is so insignificant that nothing ever happens to him."

"I never said that, Lauren," Ben says, he tone dropping almost as though he is a parent trying to console a tantrum. I chuckle.

"So, you admit that there is something going on with you?" Lauren retorts.

"Why don't you tell me what you think is going on?" Ben says, still managing to remain rational. It occurs to me that the information he is about to receive is not only very likely to have him apoplectic with embarrassment, but I get to watch it from at least two angles. My anticipation is almost palpable.

"You're going to prom with Taylor," Lauren accuses.

For a long moment, Ben looks as though he has forgotten how to comprehend English. Then, his face flushes as the implication of what is going on seems to crash over him. I am having trouble staying on the road. I am glad there isn't anyone else in the other lane or I would have to pull over.

"I'm doing what now?" he asks, utterly chagrined.

"I told you it wasn't true," Angelo defends him. "Ben wouldn't do half the things she was talking about."

I have to slow down. His face!

"'Half the things'?" Ben asks, so completely perturbed, he can barely speak. "What things? What half?"

"Stupid things," Jesse informs him, now starting to feel bad now that Ben knows and is so upset by it. He is more sympathetic now that he understand just how unpleasant it could be to have such unwanted overtures directed at him.

"Things like you were taking a dance class," Jesse goes on, "you were helping her buy her dress from an international designer, you were going to get her flowers from some fancy florist in Seattle, things like that. She also said not to talk to you about because you were embarrassed."

Ben looks particularly indignant.

"You guys believed her?" he nearly cries.

"A lot of other people do," Jesse says defensively.

From his expression, I think Ben believed that only their friends knew of this. Now, he has realized that the audience might be larger. I have to pull over. The car is shaking.

"Wait!" he clamors. "Wait wait wait! 'Other people'?! How many people did she tell!?"

"About half the school," says Lauren, still accusing.

"The female half," affirms Angelo.

"And they told the other half," Jesse says, perhaps unnecessarily.

"Well, no one told me!" Ben cries, his voice cracking its way through two octaves. "Not even Taylor!"

Jesse finally laughs, but it is as much about the way he said it as what was said. Angelo smiles a bit sheepishly, thinking he should have mentioned it sooner. Lauren is still as resentful as ever.

"I swear," Ben says, his jaw tight, "I never knew anything about this. Hell, she almost killed me with her van, the only time I can recall talking to her was when I turned her down for that stupid dance. I don't know where she got the idea that meant we were going to prom, but she didn't get it from me."

I stay where I am, going over the memory again and again, and it is just as funny as it was the first time. I am rocking and crowing with laughter ever time I recall it. The sun is still high and there isn't much I can do, so I laugh and I wait and I give them a head start. Long before my amusement has waned, I head out, looking to catch back up with the group.

To my surprise, Ben is gone. They have dropped him off near a bookstore. I know of the store, though I am not sure why Ben would like to go there. I pull up, realizing the sun is still too high. I will have to wait a few more minutes. I sit in my car and think about Ben, fighting down any anxiousness I might feel at our pending reunion. I want to expound upon it in my own head, fantasize and theorize, but I really have no idea how it will go. I simply will have to wait and see.

The sun is low enough that I can sneak inside in the shade. I step out of the car and walk quickly to the bookstore. It takes me longer than usual to realize the problem. Ben isn't here. No scent inside. No one in the store is thinking of him. Where is he?

I begin searching minds in the area, but no one is thinking about him or is seeing him either. I am wondering what could have happened and internally berate myself. The owner of the bookstore is coming over to ask me if I need help, but I ignore him, returning to my car. Someone must have seen him!

I begin doubling back between here and the movie theater. No luck. The others still haven't seen him and are unconcerned, which helps me to relax but doesn't stop me from continuing my search with vigor. Finally, I get lucky.

"-seemed like a decent guy," someone was saying, speaking to a young woman who was thinking of Ben's face. I am surprised by a flash of jealousy as she thinks about his number that he gave her, the way he gallantly slipped his arm through hers. Who is this?

"Yeah," says the young woman in turn. "I am just glad nothing bad happened. Those guys... well, let's just say that I don't think they would have minded hurting me at all. Who knows what they could have done. I was just glad Ben was there to help."

The police pull up outside her building. I pull up across the street. I listen as the two office walk upstairs and talk with the young woman, Nancy. She recounts how she was hassled on the street by a group of men who seemed as though they were going to assault her when Ben arrived, pretended that he knew her and walked her here.

He must still be nearby. I begin searching. I am about to call Alice, suddenly realizing that she would be the best chance at me finding him at speed, then freeze as my mind finds what I had been looking for.

"Come on," he hisses. "They couldn't have gotten very far."

"But don't you think the cops-"

"If they were going to show, they would've by now."

"I don't know man. This is just hinky."

"Shut up! I am in charge here. I-"

They round a corner. There is Ben.

"NO!" I scream in time with my tires.

I knew this mind. The leader, this creature; I have felt minds like this, so ready to hurt, so dismissive of life, disregarding, callused, a murder through and through.

"There he is!"

I nearly hit two cars and a pedestrian. I am not going to make it in time.

He runs, and they run. The chase is on, the prey is running!

"NNOOO!" I howl.

He makes it less than a block before he trips. I moan. They circle him in before he finds his feet, bind him without holding him, toying. It is arrogant. They might leave me enough time.

"Help," Ben calls, not loudly, as though getting the attention of a specific person. It is enough to get the murder and his companions to come up short, to turn, and find no one there. When they turn back, Ben is running again.

He is buying me time. I will get there. I will get to them before they can even touch him! I will show them pain! I will show them the folly of trespassing against the likes of me!

This time, they close with him. He is on the curb... the curb of this street! I am almost there. I just need a little more time! Just a little more time!

They hear my engine. Ben slips their bonds. They are frightened, cowardly now that the unknown has befallen them. I rev the engine. Ben is in the road, unaware that it is me, ready to flag down a passing car. They don't go for him. He goes too far! He is going to step in front of the car. I pull the car around, sliding to around to bring the passenger door closest to him. In the fading light, I can see that he doesn't recognize the car. I open the door.

"Get in," I try to make my voice sound human. I am not sure how well it comes off. All I have to do is get him in the car, park, and lock it, then I will be free to have my way with them. Even now they are running, believe that they can escape me. I will hound them. I will kill them slowly, by inches, careful not to let them bleed. All except the last. I will take the killer into me, letting it strengthen me, allowing me to become a more efficient killer of killers. He will... he will...

Ben's face is clear to me in the gloom of dusk. As soon as my voice, even vile and rasping as it was, registers to him, he relaxes, completely. His heart rate drops and begins returning to normal, despite the adrenaline not doubt burning in his vessels. He doesn't think twice, simply entering my vehicle, with nothing but relief and trust upon his face.

I... I can't do it. How can I leave him alone, how can I go off and do such works when he is here, when he is looking at me as though... as though there is nowhere he would rather be, than here, with me. I remember who I am, and what I want. It doesn't make my anger any less, but it keeps me in the car. Focus, calm. Need to drive. Need to keep him safe. Focus on the road. Drive!

"Are you okay?" he asks me.

Am _I_ okay? Am I _okay_?!

"I..." I begin, but I can't form the words without showing just how truly angry and vengeful I am. I can't do that. I can't show him the monster that I am. Not here. Not like this. I don't want to scare him. I want him to be safe and happy. Be calm. Do it for him.

"...am fine," I finish. "I am driving. I am not going to go back there and-"

I got away from myself. I want to go back! I want to make them pay! It would be so good! The power! The blood! The revenge! So easy...

I inhale, wanting to taste them, wanting to track them. My throat burns, and I... don't kill Ben. I breathe again, deeper, fuller. I turn and look at him. He is staring back at me, not a flicker of doubt upon his face. He has faith in me...

I need to be distracted until I can calm down, really calm down. I need... I need him.

"Tell me something," I say.

"What?" he asks confusedly.

"Just talk," I say, returning my gaze to the world before us. "About anything."

He casts around for an idea. Then he seems to find it.

"Have you heard of any rumors going around school since the accident?" he asks.

"All of them," I reply. With my ability and memory, it would be hard not to.

"Why?" I ask.

He is quiet for a moment, too short for a human to easily notice.

"All of them?" he clarifies. "Without exception?"

Oops.

I keep forgetting that he doesn't, in point of fact, know me and what I am. Now that I have said what I did, I cannot so easily redact my statement. Nor do I want to.

"Yes," I admit. I wait, wondering how he will react.

"Taylor was lying," he positively yelps in protest. "I never agreed to anything! She made it up! I'm not going to prom with her! I'm not going to prom at all!"

I try so very hard not to react. My lip twitches. Damn it. I pick out one of the numerous facts I have heard over the weeks, one that I am sure will ruffle his feathers.

"You aren't taking dance lessons then?" I ask

He looks like he wants to hit something, "Argh!"

It worked. I am calm. He is here. Now, to keep him here with me.

I pull into the theater parking lot, where the boys are waiting. Enough time as passed that Angelo is starting to worry. Lauren is already inside, indifferent, and Jesse doesn't want to miss the beginning of the movie, though he remains out front in solidarity.

Ben opens his mouth to speak but then closes it, almost smiling to himself, as if somehow relinquishing something I don't understand over to me. What does that MEAN!?

He sees his friends waiting for him.

"Just let me out at the curb," he says, trying to mollify me by his tone.

 _Absolutely not!_

"You don't need to-" he begins, but I park, saying nothing. I am not letting him get away. It is not going to happen.

As we get out of the car, I consider how to comport myself. I want him with me, at my side, and to stay that way. I consider the thought of him beside Nancy and realize that it will work nicely. I fabricate an idea, a story of him coming to my aid as he did hers, finding that I sincerely wish that it was true. I feel a bit covetous again, and without wondering if he will reject my affectation, I slip my gloves on and my arm in his, though keeping my distance more than I would prefer, not wanting him to feel my lack of warmth.

"Hey guys," he says, somewhat apologetic. I cannot let that stand; the apology must be mine.

"I'm sorry for holding Ben up," I say, affecting the teenage girl persona, though perhaps a bit more likable and vulnerable than I usually portray her. "I was shopping after getting back today from camping when I got a flat and had to stop in a really bad part of town. Ben saw me and helped me. I insisted on taking him out to dinner to say thank you, but he didn't want to break of his plans with you. Is it alright if I steal him away from you? I will drive him home afterward and everything."

I am aware of how manipulative I am being. Ben has the right to say no. I am not really giving him much of a choice, but he doesn't seem to mind at all. His heart rate peaks a little when I mention stealing him. I wish, certainly not for the last time, that mine could do the same in response to him.

Ben looks a little amused, an odd sort of vindication that I don't completely understand, touched with something like sympathy. I turn my attention back to the boys. They are both trying to remember how to speak.

"Sure," says Angelo, able to find his voice fast, not so totally enthralled by my face. I am like him more all the time.

"Um," he continues, "we already bought your ticket, though."

Ben doles out cash, and I feel a pang of wanting to do it myself. I shouldn't push it, though. He won't like it if I do.

"Get a refund if you can," he explains. "If you do, you can get my cash back to me tomorrow."

"Okay," smiles Angelo. "Have fun."

"Do you want to see the movie?" ejaculates Jesse, as though he must before he loses his nerve.

I smile thankfully and fabricate instantly.

"That's very kind," I say, affecting embarrassment, "but I haven't eaten all day. I really should get something in my stomach or I'm going to pass out."

I want Ben to myself, selfishly and immediately. I will accept nothing less.

"Go!" Jesse exclaims, and Angelo pulls him back towards the theater.

"Have a good night," Ben says as we retreat as well. I keep his arm, wondering momentarily if we can get into the car without me letting go. I sigh too quietly for him to hear but then have an interesting thought. This behavior seems somewhat old-fashioned, at least where Ben is concerned. I wonder what other old-fashioned habits he might have at his disposal.

We stop at my door. I pause for a moment and look at him, just long enough that I can still play it off if he does not understand. Alas, he does not open my door for me. I smile and slide into the car. There will be plenty of time for such things later, should he choose to learn about them. As soon as he is in the car as well, I pull off onto the road.

"Where would you like to eat?" I ask, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious. While I am driving, especially in such a densely populated area with so many people and cars and changing topography, I am loathed to take my eyes off the road with him in the car, while he may look upon me as he wishes. I envy him that.

"You don't have to take me-" he begins to protest. I will have none of it.

I do just as I had been thinking; I look at him, though sharply.

"That isn't the name of a restaurant," I point out. He is done protesting.

"Okay, okay," he says with a sigh. "But I don't know the area at all. Why don't you choose?"

I run through the restaurants in town. The closest is Bella Italia. Does he even like Italian food?

"Alright," I say, not too sanguine with my choice, but deciding that if he would like to go somewhere else, he can speak up himself.

I park and as we are walking towards the entrance, he steps to my side again, at roughly the same distance as before, giving me the opportunity to take his arm again. I cannot help the smile the blossoms across my face. He wants me. He is choosing me. The monster who almost ended human lives rather than being here, with him. I am sobered by my own thoughts. But no. I can do this. I just need to be careful, in control. No mistakes. Fourth Option.

I take his arm and we make our way inside. The host greets us, but I am looking upon Ben. I only let myself be distracted from his face long enough to ask for a more out of the way table which feels more intimate and to thank the host as he pulls out my chair. Other than that, I am entirely focused on the beautiful boy that is before me. I have missed him so ardently, I couldn't satisfactorily put it into words. I measure every difference. The flush of his skin. The length of his hair. The almost imperceptible elongation of his features. The slight strain on him by gravity. The subtle relaxation that I have never seen in him before. The undeniable jealousy he tries to suppress at the attention the host shows me. But there is something I can't quite discern in his expression. So, I do what I have been waiting so very long for.

I ask; "What does your expression mean?"

"Nothing," he says quickly, trying to hide it, trying to relax his features, embarrassed.

I am much better at hiding my expression. My irritation is both petulant and playful, but I am not going to be so forthcoming when I know he is not. But that doesn't stop me from wishing that we both were being honest.

"Why won't you tell me?" I ask.

"Why does it matter what I am thinking?" he counters, and I can tell that he is being dramatic to cover his embarrassment. I don't really care. I want to _know_ him!

"I want to know," I say calmly and evenly.

He snorts, more than a little derisively, "What if I don't want to tell you?"

The thought is agonizing. I am fully prepared to beg, to be persuasive, but I am not really to give up on letting him make the choice. Would that be so hard for him?

"Why don't you want to tell me?" I ask, keeping the dismay out of my voice.

He turns away. I almost run across the room at the speed of his turn, to keep his face and gaze.

"Are you always so intrusive?" he asks, his voice distance.

It suddenly occurs to me that he is being defensive for a reason. I am sitting here, trying to persuade him to tell me his thoughts, to be honest with me, when I am not willing to do so. I am being unfair, and I think that he knows it, even if he cannot put it into words.

His eyes rove back to me as I consider this and what to say next. He looks at me, his gaze unfettered, moving across me, my clothing, and at last, coming to the menus the host has placed before us. His eyes came back up to mine. If I wanted him to be honest, then I must be honest first. We were speaking of my intrusiveness, so I will tell him.

"It is easy for me to know what is going on in other people's minds," I say honestly, if not wholly. I go on, determined to be honest. He already knows so much. As long as he doesn't know it all, know the important facts, he will be safe. I won't need to worry of the Volturi or...

"It's..." I say, searching for palatable words, "I suppose the best term would be a skill that I have. But with you, I can't. I get nothing from you."

I smile to myself. The truth, and the whole truth.

"It's ironic really," I let slip, almost cathartically. "There isn't a person in existence whose mind I would want to know more than yours."

I watch as the expression slowly leaves his face, as his thoughts turn. I feel nervous and yet stronger for my words. I wait for him to speak with at least the appearance of patience.

"Do you think the reason that you can't read my thoughts might be the same reason you want to know them the most?" he asks.

I sit straighter. That wasn't at all what I was expecting. But, of course, whether he means to or not, he suggests with his words that the only reason I might want to know what is going on in his because he is a mystery to me.

"There was a time that might have been the case," I say to my truest love. "But that time is long past."

The waiter arrives. Ben looks simultaneously annoyed and relieved by the interruption. I laugh silently to myself.

"Hello, I'll be your waiter this evening," The waiter says, his thoughts nearly dismissing Ben completely. "Anything to drink?"

I only have eyes for Ben. I wait for him to answer, "Soda."

"Which kind of soda?" The waiter asks politely, though internally it is more condescending.

"Don't care," Ben says, as though he is already tired of the waiter's presence and just wants him gone. The waiter picks up on this and decides to give him something odd, two or more mixed sodas that aren't in any way complimentary, hoping to bring out some unlikable qualities in Ben, so that I might leave Ben and seek solace from him instead.

I smile. As though such things were so easily done.

"I'll have the same," I say, as much because Ben will be the only one drinking at this table tonight as to derail any tampering by our most gracious waiter. He tries to cover his improper thoughts with a more congenial smile before taking the drink order to the kitchen.

I watch Ben for a long moment. He looks pensive, disheartened somehow, as though caught between two impossibilities. He looks as though he wants something that he knows he can't have.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask him. I am getting better about letting him say no if he wishes.

He looks around to see that we are alone, but that doesn't seem to relieve him. He looks suddenly nervous, unsure.

"Um," he says, searching for words. "I was just thinking that I'm selfish too."

He is talking to me! He is opening up! He is being honest! I want to sing with joy!

"You?" I ask, keeping my tone just this side of playful. "Selfish? I find that hard to believe."

He takes the time to find more words, more precise words. I am learning to love watching him do this. He considers and weights, wanting to be understood, wanting to be heard for who he is, not for what others might judge his words to be. He is trying to find a way around words' own imperfections. He wishes to be a purveyor of earnest truth.

"I don't like how some of the guys look at you," he says, then reconsiders. "Well, all of them, really."

How strange. I don't really understand what this means to him.

"How does that make you selfish?" I ask, wanting to know more. I want to know everything he is willing to say.

"Because," he says, "it doesn't really matter to me."

It suddenly occurs to me that I am so caught up in his words and that he is saying them that I am not paying attention to what he is actually saying. He is confessing jealousy! I am rather embarrassed by just how much this pleases me, and how much I can relate to it. I want to laugh, but I will embarrass him. But then his final words sink through my elation and I am unable to entirely hide my disappointment, though it is dwarfed by my intrigue as I ask, "It doesn't?"

He thins his lips, as though wondering if there is any way around his next words.

"Well, it does actually," he confesses. I am humming with delight.

"But that's my point," he says, "it doesn't matter."

Now, I am thoroughly confused. I also can't seem to care. Nor can I be concerned with speaking myself. He is really talking to me!

"What I mean to say," he continues, "is that I get no say in what other people do, especially when it involves them doing it to other people who aren't me. It doesn't affect me at all if people do or do not leer at you. Me wanting them not to is selfish."

He is too much! He really is. He is almost berating himself because he isn't selfless enough to not care when men are attracted to me. He has no idea what a rarity it is for him to care enough to even consider his own behavior as he does. But then, I have a moment of my own selfishness, one that I can't deny. Even if I am being underhanded about it, I really would like to know to what degree he thinks of me in such ways.

"Does it really bother you so much?" I inquire quietly.

"Would it bother you if girls leered at me?" he says back quickly, his expression suggesting his own surprise at his words. I have to fight back laughter. It isn't that he is looked upon admiringly by girls around him regularly; it is that, whether he knows it or not, he seems to have caught on to what I was truly asking, and has turned the question around to ask me the same thing!

"Who says they don't?" I reply, amused.

He looks even more surprised.

"They don't," he says, dismissively, but then asks almost boyishly, "do they?"

I raise an eyebrow. He doesn't really seem as though he wants an answer. Is it possible that it isn't something he just dismisses out of hand, a denial? Could it really be that he doesn't even see what is so obvious before him? How can he be so intuitive about so many things, and yet not this?

"Imagine if they all did," he says, "with the same intensity and frequency that men do you."

I think about that for a moment. I have to tune out the fantasies of men so regularly that I hardly notice it unless I have to. I take a moment to recall the men around me, from the waiter on back through time, allowing myself to see the lewd images that they fill their thoughts with at my sight. Then, I consider that quantity of lust and desire expended towards Ben, by every woman who comes in sight of him. I feel momentarily unwell. The amount of jealousy I feel starts to edge my thoughts towards avenues in my brain that I came dangerously close to using earlier this night, avenues that lead to murder.

"Fair enough," I say, having to hold the thought of his smiling sleeping face as he speaks my name to the forefront of my mind in order to calm me down and bring me back to him.

He smiles, his tone ironical, "Would it really bother you so much?"

Naturally, it is my turn to be glad to be interrupted by the waiter, as well as annoyed.

"Are we ready to order?" he asks.

I am not eating, so I allow Ben his turn. He looks to the first entree and orders that. This makes me laugh quietly. I guess he isn't here for the food.

"Nothing for me," I say, handing back my menu, wanting to be alone again as much as him. So, of course, his first question shocks me back into feeling off-footed.

"Do you eat?" he asks curiously, as though it is such a normal question.

I find his eyes. There is no jest there, and no judgment. Still, the question is enough to get my old defenses in place.

"Of course," I reply, all thoughts of honesty forgotten. Though, it is true that I do eat. When I have to. I cannot digest it, but that is neither here nor there.

He makes an effort to sound casual, "I've never seen it."

What is he asking? What does he want? How can I handle this situation? My family will not be safe if he knows too much. I won't be safe. _He_ won't. What can I do? How can I make the right decision when there are not right answers?

"Don't worry," he says, his voice unusually reassuring. "I'm not going to tell anyone."

"I'm not concerned about that," I admit. It's true; him telling other humans isn't very likely at all.

He bobs his head a little, as though not wanting to say too much, but still says, "I'm not walking away either."

I cannot fully contain my astonishment.

"Oh?" I ask. "What makes you so sure?"

He bites his lip, not looking sure at all.

"What makes you so sure I'll leave?" he retorts lightly.

I take a long breath, breathing in the most desirable scent I will ever encounter, wanting to rip out his throat, here and now.

"If you knew..." I say. The pain of his leaving is too much to think about.

"If I knew what you are," he says, "it might not matter to me."

If the world burst into flames, I might not have known it. How? _HOW!?_ How could he know this? How could he know my one truest hope? Does he have any idea that he just dangled it before me, how unfair it is, how much I want it, want him!?

"No," I say, dismissively. "I can't think about that."

"Why not?" he asks, sounding entirely petulant.

"Because," I sigh, "as much as I might..."

I have to fight, to push past pain and fear and doubt, pushed by selfishness and desire, pulled by conscience and duty.

"want you to be... with me," I say, a struggle for every word, "it wouldn't be fair. It wouldn't be right."

He sighs in turn.

"You know," he says, sounding almost exasperated, "as much as you keep telling yourself what you can't have and what you shouldn't want, you could just tell me and trust that it will all work out."

I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. He sees everything! How could he understand so completely? How could he possibly know so much? He is amazing, wondrous. How could such a creature ever exist? He is my antithesis, the gnomon to the shadow that is me, the angelic to my monstrosity. How could I ever, ever stand beside him?

"I can't," I say, my voice even but my exponential despair churning upon my face.

"I get it," he says, and I can't but believe that he does. He must understand.

"But the thing is," he goes on, his tone rife with hard-won truth, "you can't hide the truth forever. Sooner or later, it's going to come out. I'm not exactly stupid over here."

I don't laugh, but I do smile.

"Or unobservant," I concede.

"I guess," he says, and I roll my eyes, managing not to guffaw in pique.

"I mean," he reiterates. "I do notice things from time to time. Like you eating. Or not eating, rather."

I have the most powerful bout of curiosity I can remember having. I am practically leaning across the table, trying hard not to reach out and grasp him in my own convictions.

"What else have you noticed?" I ask.

"You're telepathic," he says, unable to meet my eyes. He gazes at the bread, as though longing for a distraction. I allow him his wish, sliding the basket closer to him.

"Please," I say graciously, "eat."

He eats for a moment. I watch him. He seems unsure. Such as a silly, convoluted, lovely boy.

"Am I right?" he asks after he swallows, quickly returning to eating after the words are out.

I consider answering. But then, I realize, this wouldn't simply end here. He would ask more, and more, and he already has noticed so much. It wouldn't take too much more before he might start asking the right question, coming to the correct conclusions. I can't abide it.

"I wish you wouldn't," I say, almost sadly.

"Wouldn't what?" he asks in return.

"Try," I say pointedly, letting the single word fall away before I continue, "try and figure out what I am."

"Oh," he says. He looks at the food, seriously and deeply considering his next words. What reply could take such careful consideration?

"And..." he says, at last, drawing it out, letting me know there is more.

"And?" I ask as it is clearly what he wants me to do.

"And," he repeats for emphasis, "what if I already do?"

My mind goes blank. I cannot comprehend his words.

"Do what?" comes from out my mouth, without my consent. No, no, no! This can't be true! It can't!

"Know," he says.

I want to scream. I want to run. I want to disappear. I want to leave and never come back. In that moment, I would gladly give him up, give up any future we might have, to undo all of this, to have never met him, never know him, to protect him from what I am and what dangers I have brought to his life, simply by being a part of it.

"I'm not sure," he says quickly, "and I don't know all the details, but I have a pretty good idea."

It is the exact thing I need to hear to relax back to sanity. Of course, he can't know. How can he know? Whatever he knows, I must know it too. I shouldn't be so menaced by what might be, only.

"Tell me," I demand.

He looks suddenly anxious, unsure as he did before. He is scared, but more that he might be wrong than he might be right. Again, he casts about for a distraction. His eyes settle on my hands, below my chin, a human gesture that allows me to lean forward with the intent I desire without drawing attention to the fact that my neck is not straining.

"Why are you wearing gloves?" he asks, as though no conversation of any import has just taken place. "Are you cold?"

As though I could ever be cold. As though I could be anything but cold! I take off the gloves.

"I thought it would be easier," I say.

For some reason, my response sparks some bit of ire in him. A deep passion burns in him, low but intense.

"I'm not going to tell you," he says.

I sit back, shocked.

"Look," he says, his words coming fast. "I want to make something clear. I... I like you. But, I'm finding it really hard to accept the fact that you don't trust me."

He is right. He is oh so right. I say that I trust him, want to even, but I am not honest. I can't be, completely. I don't even want to tell him everything that I reasonably could. For all my decisiveness, the pep talks and support I received from my family over the last five days, I am still afraid that he will leave. He was right before; I am a coward.

He sighs.

"I'm sorry," he says, sounding it. "I don't regret what I said, but it's still true. I don't know what's going to happen. But right now, there seems to be only two ways your way can go. Either you don't tell me, and I never figure it out, and not matter what else happens, there will be this wall between us, this distance that will never go away. Do you want that?"

The way he phrases it, it is undeniable. I still want to deny it, but it is true. Should he never know what I am, he will never know me. I don't want that. I want to be honest. I want him to accept me. I just don't understand how he ever could.

Despite my misgivings, I shake my head.

"Then," he says, "there is the other. You don't tell me, and I do figure it out, which means you might as well just tell me anyway."

I look into his eyes. What passion! I am overwhelmed by him. How could I not be scared of him? He is so far beyond anything anyone could ever deserve.

"Alright," he seems to conclude. "Alright. I'm not going to tell you what you should do. Honestly, you might be right that we would be better off if we both walked away right now. But I'm not psychic; I don't know the future. I am not going to tell you what to do. All I know is..."

He takes a deep breath. I freeze.

Slowly, as though as unsure as I am, but with determination, he reaches towards me. Carefully, he takes my wrist, bringing it gently into his grasp, holding my hand with both of his, a gesture of thanks, of compassion, of reverence. My heart, though long dead within me, twists. He feels my hand, shifting fingers across it, in examination as well as admiration. The sensation is so marvelous, so appealing, I feel at a complete loss. It is a wonder that I am not writhing in my seat, moaning with the simple pleasure of it, the low and ingenuous hum, visceral and undeniable, that is washing through me, informing me that I am here and he is here and that I exist.

And, as though I could endure any more, he brings my hand close to him. I have been pliant in his grip so far. I consider pulling away as I realize what is coming. I have spent so long living in a world where I have tried to deny myself everything that I could possibly want for fear of my own devious nature. I want to let go, but I am afraid what it could mean if I do, if he should keep to me and truly glimpse what I am. I don't want to risk living in a world where he knows for sure that I am not human. My pain is too great to allow me to believe that he will accept it. But the possibility still exists that he might, that is might be a good thing. I let him. I let him kiss my hand.

The warmth, the rush that I feel is poignant, so desirable, so intrusive in its ability to cause sensation in me, I feel afraid by what I might do to sustain such contact, what I might blithely cast into his life so that I might have a chance at this again, and more! I let slip a whispered moan that I pray he does not hear.

But, he doesn't press. He doesn't let go either. He holds to me, his eyes finding mine, and in them is such a fervor, an undeniable look of heartfelt gratitude and of appreciation, and though my emotion is no less strong than it was a moment before, pleasure has been replaced by his thanks, his concern for me, his care, his value for me. It is the most powerful thing that I have ever felt.

"All I know is," he repeats, his voice firm, low, deep, full of meaning, "that I'm happier near you. I want you in my life. I want to be near you. I don't know what that means yet, but I want to figure that out."

Slowly, reluctantly, I take back my hand. I have never felt so conflicted. I couldn't possibly have expected this from him. I want to tell him everything. I want to forget the fourth option and take the third, take him and have him forever! I want everything to be as he suggests it, as he makes me want to see it! I want not to be the monster I know I am, to be the person he so obviously deserves, the one he might someday love. But I can't deny the reality of the situation. I am not as he sees me. He does not know me. There is only one avenue I can think to take. I must let him know me. I know I cannot reveal all my secrets but there is more that I can tell him. More I want to tell him. I know not what he will do, but the informed decision must be his.

The waiter appears and places a dish before Ben. He sips his drink, as the waiter asks if we need anything else and I shake my head. I watch him as he drinks down his entire drink in nearly a single pull. He looks adorably surprised and I resupply him with my own beverage, from which he drinks as well. He has been so caught up in me, in us, that he has forgotten his own needs.

"You have thoroughly dominated the conversation," I say with charisma. "Why don't you eat and I'll talk awhile?"

"About what?" he asks, his voice muffled a bit by his meal.

I drop my head in self-indication, "Myself."

He sits straighter.

"Eat," I all but laugh, "or you get nothing."

He begins to eat with an abandon that nearly has him choking. I dampen my concern. He is here and will come to no harm whilst I am with him. I focus on my own words. The truth, as totally as I can. I let go of all fear, as best I can.

"The secret," I begin, slowly but without pause, "our secret, is not one I could divulge at the moment, even if it was solely my own. We have a drive home ahead of us, and while I think it is unlikely that you will react poorly, I don't want you to be forced into enduring my presence if you no longer wish to and having to find a way to get home. But, I do not wish to tell you. Do not misunderstand me, I want you to know everything about me. Absolutely everything. It isn't that I mistrust you; it is knowing would mean one of two options if the wrong people found out. Neither are options I can tolerate. If a third option was possible, I would tell you as soon as you had the option to leave my company without inconvenience. But it isn't. As it is, I cannot be sure that you would be safe with me."

Knowing means death or vampirism as far as the Volturi are concerned. I cannot deny it.

"How?" he asks into the slump. "How can you know how this will all go? Can you see the future too?"

"No," I say, thinking of Alice, wondering if in two words he will understand. "I can't."

He thinks about it, then a knowing expression fills his face. I am pleased, but am again, wrong.

"Alice?" he asks.

I am utterly shocked. Who is this boy!? What I wouldn't give for a moment inside his head!

"And yet," he says around sipping coke, "here you sit."

I find that my mouth has fallen open in my shock. I close it and realign my thoughts with the conversation before his question. When thinking about it in retrospect, it is almost funny how poorly I failed at keeping myself from him.

"I know," I admit, "I know. I can't keep away from you. It was lucky that I found you tonight. I don't want to think of what would have happened if I hadn't."

I rush back to the moment in my thoughts, thinking of them without invitation, knowing that I would still gladly kill them if I had but the faintest excuse.

"Why were you here?" he asks, his tone almost purposefully distracting.

"I told you," I reply, feeling diffident. "I can't keep away from you."

To my sheer amazement, his cheeks color, going red as he attempts to hide his face.

"Are you blushing?" I ask, unbelieving.

"No!" he nearly shouts his denial, blushing all the more.

I giggle. I can't help it. His face! It is too hilarious! I file the memory away as my new favorite as he ferociously begins eating again.

I relent, my mind returning to my telling, the memory of what had happened having me instantly somber.

"I've never tried so hard to observe a single person before. It wasn't an easy thing, looking for someone I could not hear, knowing that you had separated from your friends and not gone to the store you had said you would be at. And I couldn't get to you or leave my vehicle to find you until later."

"Why?" he asks. This, alas, is something I cannot tell him. I content him with a smile and simply continue. He does not protest.

"It's hard for me not to rely on my other sense. I have spent so long with it as a part of myself and so universal, I've never needed to hone skills in the event of its absence. But, I've had some practice with it, from the weeks we weren't speaking, so I was able to track you down. Once I had, there was just enough time to get to you."

My anger is too vast not to make it upon my face. He seemed unwilling to let me stay so unhappy.

"I'm the only person who's thoughts you don't know?" he asks.

It is still hard for me to openly admit such things, but I do, "Yes."

"How does it work?" he asks with an eagerness to which I can easily relate. "Is it like a sense wholly different from your others, or is it like being in someone else's head or what?"

"I can hear others' inner monologue," I explain. "I can almost press into someone's mind, then I can see and hear what they do. The better I know a person, the more familiar they are, the easier it is to pick them out of the general hum."

"Hum?" he asks.

I nod, "It's like background conversation or white noise, like I can hear everyone's mind, all over the world, but it is so quiet, can't pick anything out. If someone is close enough, I can hear it. I can hear a member of my family maybe a couple of miles away, but with others, not so well."

"So," he draws out, seeing that his meal is almost finished, "you have to track me by, what, looking in everyone else's mind until you happen to see me?"

"Exactly," I affirm. "It takes time. I don't know who might actually see you, and after a while keeping track of so many minds is tedious."

"You can do that?" he asks, sounding astounded. "Keep track?"

I think a moment as I nod, deciding that I can tell this much without worry.

"I have perfect recall," I allow. "I remember everything. My thoughts are faster than... the average persons'."

He nods as he quickly finishes the last few bites.

"Do you want to head back?" he asks me.

The request twists something in me, inexplicably.

"You want to go?" I ask, undeniably hurting.

"No!" he shouts. The waiter notices us and processes our bill.

"No," he says quieter, a bit flustered. "I mean, as much as this food has been nice and all, it might be... easier to talk if we're alone. Like alone, alone. In your car."

He wants privacy. He has more to say. I want to hear it.

"Very well," I say. The waiter brings the bill. I pay in cash with a forty percent tip, rounded up to the nearest twenty. Leaving the money, I stand. He offers his arm. I take it and we walk out of the restaurant, into the unknown.


	8. Chapter 8: Profession

Ben and I are walking out to the car, arm in arm, and I am not doing so much to keep myself clear of him. I look over at him, unable to keep my curiosity at bay anymore.

"What should we talk about now?" I ask.

He gives a shrug, but it isn't dismissive. I get the impression that he is simply waiting, and so I allow him this without comment. I unlock the car and am preparing to drop his arm when, to my resplendent satisfaction, he reaches down and opens my door for me. I let my pleasure so upon my face and allow him to hold the door and close it behind me. As he is walking around to his door, I take a moment to bounce in my seat in an ecstasy of delight. I have returned to my calm once he has opened his own door and gotten into the car. I drive homeward, giving him as long as I can stand before I speak again.

He is gazing at me, and I must know, "What are you thinking about?"

His face is almost expressionless.

"I'm not," he says.

That is not an acceptable answer!

"You're not?" I ask.

"I wasn't really thinking," he apparently clarifies. "I was just looking at you."

I cannot but be pleased, but I must have more, "Why are you looking at me?"

He takes a long, almost suffering breath.

"Because," he says, as though he is preparing for his own doom, "after tonight, I'm not sure how much of you I'm going to get to see."

I can't abide such a statement, such a notion, especially when I have no way of redressing it.

"What makes you say that?" I ask, if only because I must defeat his logic.

"Because," he says, in the same way he had when he suggested that he knew.

"Because?" I ask, suddenly nervous again.

He sighs.

"Because," he says, "you should tell me."

Inwardly I relax, if only because he is not directing the conversation where I feared he was.

"Tell you what?" I ask.

"The truth," he states flatly.

No. I can't. Least of all that the Volturi might find out and destroy him. Most of all because I would risk losing him. He cannot ask this of me. If he did ask me outright, could I sincerely deny him?

"I thought you said you weren't going to pressure me," I point out, hoping to stall, to prevent, to protect, though I am not sure if it is him or me that I am protecting.

"I'm not," he says, without defense. "If you don't want to, you won't. But I'm letting you know that you should."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because," he says. He pausing, as though gathering strength, as though he is afraid, but not for himself. He seems scared of how I will react. What could he know that could scare me?

"Because," he continues, "you said if I knew, there were only two options for me."

I frown.

"Yes," I admit, still unsure where he is going.

"Then," he says, working himself, and me, up to it, "there are only two options for me then."

I look at him. No. He couldn't know. How could he know? I know that he is smart and that he is capable of finding answers, but he can't make that many jumps himself. He must think that he knows, but he couldn't. I need more information

"What does that mean?" I ask.

He closes his eyes, as though casting the die, unsure what his next words will bring.

"I'm not certain," he says, "but I am pretty sure."

"Pretty sure?" I ask, needing to have it all.

"That I know," he says.

"How could-" I begin, but then something occurs to me. I am working forwards. I am assuming he can't know because I am trying to find avenues from him not knowing to the truth, believing that him knowing the truth is impossible. But, if I entertain the possibility that he _can_ know, and work backward towards how he could have learned it, there is only one answer. He spent the weekend in Le Push, at First Beach. There are those there that know the truth. He might know. He might know everything. I must have it all.

"Who?" I ask, trying not to reveal how close I am to losing my sanity. "Who told you?"

"It wasn't her fault," he defense. "She just thought she was telling me some old story. She was explaining why you didn't visit her land, that's all."

I hiss. I do it before I can stop myself. He knows. Some child, a girl, knowing the secret but believing it merely legend, has told him the truth.

I cannot withhold my dismay, my frustration.

"But you know," I manage around my clenched teeth.

"Yes?" he asks, unsure, wanting confirmation.

He is right. I should tell him. There is nothing left for me to hide.

"You know that I am a vampire," I say.

He looks at me. I look back.

I hear it as he swallows, "Yes."

I hiss again. No! NO NO NO NO NO! NO! NO!

"You've known?" I all but accuse him. "You knew this whole time?"

"Since Saturday," he confirms.

I need to know!

"Why?" I demanded, losing control of my voice.

"Why what?" he asks, thick with confusion.

"Why are you here?" I am very nearly shrieking. "Why did you agree to spend the evening with me? Why do you sit calmly here beside me, when you know what I am?"

He does just that, sits, calm, looking at me, not a care in the world.

"I feel safe with you," he says, no fear at all in his voice.

A roar works its way through me. Hold some of it back, but not much.

"How?" I demand, my tone impugning his very sanity. "How can you just sit there and...!? And...?!"

He leans carefully and slightly forward. I can't but watch as he reaches and takes my hand again.

"It doesn't matter to me what you are," he says.

Defiance rips through me.

"No," I spit, withdrawing my hand. How am I supposed to protect him? I thought, somehow, I assumed, that if he ever really did find out about me, he would run, he would turn away. I expected him to, even wanted him to. It is in that moment that I realize that I wanted him to because I thought that it would be safer for him. He would see and he would leave, and I could justify finally leaving him and not risking his life in order to perhaps have what I wanted. Not only is he not leaving, he is drawing closer. He is purposefully stirring himself to me. He is making it easier for me to kill him.

I need to get him home, get away from him. I need to run, to find the furthest reaches of the world, where he will never find me, and let him alone. He must not come to harm.

I hear the softest of sounds, the slightest of accelerated inhales, undeniably a gasp or a...

I look to him.

Tears. There are tears in his eyes. One is rolling down his cheek. My actions register in me. I pulled away from him. I said no to him.

"Are you crying?" I can help but ask.

"No," he denies, rubbing at his face.

I made him _cry_!

I try to breathe, to fill myself with his scent. Feeling the drive to kill him at that moment is easier than feeling what I have just done to him.

"Don't you see?" I attest, trying to make him see sense. "Can't you understand? I'm a monster. The things I've done... I am damned. And I'd rather be damned three times over again than drag you to hell with me."

"It doesn't matter," he says tenaciously.

I jerk back. He can't mean that.

"It doesn't..." I say, trying to understand, trying to feel something, anything, but despair at his inevitable death.

"I don't care about the risk," he says, jutting his chin. "There is nowhere I want to be more than right here, with you. And right now, I don't know how that could ever change."

He turns to look out the window. I have not idea what to do. I want to call Alice, to see what effect this development has had on his future. I want to show him, to drive back to find the men the nearly hurt him, to show him what a vampire is, what we do. I want to scare him into taking his life seriously, into believing that I could kill him.

"You're really a vampire?" he asks, as though he can't keep the question in any longer.

The situation is so ludicrous, so beyond reason.

"I really am," I admit. It occurs to me that I have no secrets left. I catalog my life, vis-à-vis Ben, and realize that there is one last secret, one last confession that I want to keep wholly to myself, at least for the present, one that I can easily omit without an outright lie; Ben, if he must take his life in his hands by casting it against my own, needs the best chance at a moral, mortal life. My devotion towards maintaining the fourth option has never been stronger than it is in that moment. I will do all I can to keep him human, including forgoing giving him any information about his possible future as an immortal. And, moreover, I will ask my family to do the same.

"But you don't," he says, his words disjointed and a bit bumbling, "you know, drink humans."

The Quileutes have much to answer for. I wonder if they would consent to counsel. I would actually talk with Katherine about it if the wolves yet lived.

"What makes you say that?" I ask him, simply to keep him talking. His voice is keeping me calm, as ever.

"A few things," he answers quietly. "It's the reason you made a treaty with the Quileutes, but it's also has something to do with you. You refrain, you keep trying to do the right thing."

"And failing," I say, rather cynically. "If I could succeed, you wouldn't be here now."

He tries not to smile. To smile! Is he completely insane?!

"I can't seem to mind," he says, as though being here, with me, is something covetous.

I try not to laugh. He is utterly ludicrous. I find myself trying desperately not to find that endearing at the moment. I want very much to be mad at him. Though, really, it isn't his fault. Oh, for want of someone to blame!

"So you don't drink blood?" he asks.

"Human blood," I specify. "Blood is a necessity. We get by on animal blood. It isn't what you might call appealing, but it is far better than going without."

"Will you die without it?" he asks, and I detect a fraught tone to his words.

"No," I assure him. "At least, I have never known of any of our kind destroying themselves in that way."

"Good," he says, relieved. I am considering asking him why when he replies, "What else can you do?"

"I'm sorry?" I ask instead.

"You are strong and fast," he recites. "You are durable and can read minds. You have perfect recall and a fast brain. What else?"

For a moment, I am torn asunder. At length, I would give much to have him pass over me, to see me as I am, a monster to be avoided. Every additional fact that I should give him will only increase that chance. However, I know not how to relinquish my desire for him to stay, and thus am reluctant to answer. And yet again, I wish to, for I want him to know me, to understand me as no mortal ever has. And, once again, should I tell him all that I am, the chance of him leaving will increase.

As I gaze at him, my mind a whirl, he stares straight back.

"Is it a secret?" he asks, almost contesting me, as though to convince me with his logic, "Will knowing put me at more risk than I already am?"

Undeniable, inescapable pain crests through me, shattering my restraint and my composure. Yet, as I watch, I see that the pain I have affected as reflects itself in him. He is feeling what I feel. I must resolve to continue. The smoother I can make this exchange, the less likely it will result in pain for either of us.

"All my senses are greatly improved," I say, shaking off my previous nerves.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

I smile to reassure him, as I try to form my words into something coherent. As I do, I realize an additional angle that I had not considered before. If I am to be honest, this truth must be foremost.

"I'm not human," I say.

I watch as my words land upon him and am nearly laid low when he does not respond at all in surprise or judgment or even denial. I am starting to see that he really does see me and believe that he might just be serious when he states that it doesn't matter to him.

"I liked it better when you didn't know," I admit candidly, "when you treated me as though I was. I've spent so long feeling separated from everyone but my family. Feeling that connection again was... very enjoyable."

"Do you feel less connected to me now?" he asks, sounding ever so horrified.

I come up short in my own mind. To be sure, I expected as much. Somehow, the notion that he should be parted from me upon learning the truth has worked itself into many facets of my being and our interactivities. Now that it come to pass, I realize that I do not feel more distant from him, outside of my own expectation, conscious or otherwise. For certain, I could let go, and allow us to become closer, should I wish. And, that which is equally certain is that I am unsure as to whether or not I wish it. Verily, there is one certainty I can attest to.

"No," I say. "I believed that I would, but really, I do not."

"Edwina," he says, sounding beguiled and agitated in equal measure. "Nothing has changed. I simply know more about you. I want to keep learning more. I want to know it all."

At last, I understand. On this very point, I have spent more time focused on any other since the day I met him, even more than on the fear his end inspires in me. For a moment, I consider us, opposites as we doubtless are, as opposites sides of the scale, balanced, two faces of the same coin, the light and dark of a quarter moon. I take heart in the notion, that despite our many, often unconscionable, differences, we are the same. I see that I am letting my pain rule me, that I am letting what fear and despair that I have in my heart govern my decisions. Ben is not doing that. He is reaching out when I am withdrawing. He is brave and taking risks and has love in his heart. Despite my retreats, I love him, greater than he can understand, with the strength and depth of my kind, markedly more than humans have been known to love. But, I cannot deny that he has some love for me. How could he not, if he is here? How could I turn from that in good conscious?

Giving no more thought to my anxiety, I reached back, in turn.

"I understand," I respond in kind. "It's frequently frustrating, knowing so little about you too."

I slow to a stop outside his house. Even though our journey is over, I am unwilling to let him go directly. I consider what offer I can hope to make that will tempt him into arrestment, at least for a time. In point of fact, he makes the offer for me.

"You can ask me anything, I'll tell you," he says. It is the most alluring offer anyone has ever granted upon me.

"Well," he qualifies, "anything I can tell you."

"What couldn't you tell me?" I ask immediately, my rapture plain.

"Stuff that's too embarrassing," he admits, "or stuff that I don't know, things that I can't answer. And maybe things that I'm afraid to tell you."

I realize that this is in fact, the most thrilling moment of my entire life. I had never considered that this might come to pass; I am with him, and I am _known_ to him. And he has offered, of his own free will, one of the most vital desires of my heart. Is it possible that I have yet further love to develop for him? Could I honestly come to love him _more_ than I already do?!

"Why would you be afraid to tell me something?" I ask, almost incapable of containing my glee.

He cannot contain himself either, seemingly beleaguered by his fears. He keeps my hand, as a comfort. I take heart in that too.

"I know I don't get to make your decisions for you," he says, unexpectedly, "but if I think you're going to react in a way I don't want, it would be hard to tell you the truth."

I think upon what he has said. His hand is in mine, warm, vital in the way of humans, soft, and frail. I take heart in that, as I did with Alice and Jasper, with my family. I allow myself to feel cared for by him, letting go of my pain. It gives me a degree of confidence, of forthrightness that I did not know I could be comfortable having. I collect my words knowing what to say as I know how to walk and to breathe.

"You don't trust me," I state simply.

As expected, after a moment of shock, he begins to deny me, "What are you talking about? Of course I trust you!"

"No," I say firmly, casting my thoughts back to the restaurant when I realized that he was right, that I didn't trust him. "Trusting someone doesn't mean you trust them until you don't. Trusting someone means trusting them, no matter what. You don't have to trust me, Ben. I have certainly done nothing to deserve it, and I do not think any less of you for not trusting me. But, could I ask you... a favor?"

"Perhaps," he said, as though by saying I can ask, he is expected to agree. Silly, lovely boy.

"I would appreciate it if you were honest with me," I say, again in my casual confidence. "I am not suggesting that you must unequivocally tell me everything, but when you do speak, tell me the truth, as best you know it. If you extend me this courtesy, I will do the same."

As confident as I am, I realize that I have managed not to say that I do not trust him either, because I know that I don't. It will take practice and some faith on my part. Trust, real trust, is very new to me.

"I can do that," he agrees. "Just remember, I'm not perfect. I'm going to make mistakes."

He, the wayward human, sits comfortably beside that which might kill him, the vampire who just might love him more than she wants to make a meal of him. What a pair we are!

"I'm not perfect either," I say honestly.

"More like idyllic," he says, and I am awed by the fact that I don't actually laugh in his face. In what realm of anyone's imagination would I be considered idyllic!? He continues without pause, "but no, I guess you aren't. Can I ask you something?"

I feel myself recoiling ever so slightly with worry, as he had just done at my request. So, naturally, I imitate his manner as I say, "Perhaps."

"Can you tell me," he asks, sounding pained, "the next time you plan to leave again? For my own good."

At his words, I consider what it might take to part us now, for me to decide that I need leave. He knows me, what I am. He has admitted and acted with affection towards me. He has granted me access to him through question and honesty. He wishes to know me better and is unafraid of me. He treats me as an equal, even now, and I feel for him more than I would have thought possible an hour ago.

I sigh, "I am not sure that I can. Leave, not tell you. That is to say, yes. I will tell you, but it's... hard for me to imagine that happening."

Just short of impossible, really.

He nods, as though in complete understanding. I wish to kiss him. I long for the day when it might come. But, rather than try and convince myself that I should not, to help protect him from myself, I see that there is no rush, that the day will come when it is time, and I am not concerned with dragging it here before it is time, nor shoving it away in denial.

I see him looking towards the house.

"You want to go in?" I ask.

"Never," he replies.

I have to admit, the thrill that lights through me at his words is utterly joyous.

"No!" he states, his face conveying that he is afraid that he has given something away, "I mean no. I probably should, though. Shouldn't I?"

I consider his question. I may not be able to read his mind, but as I consider him, I realize that know him rather well indeed. I want to know him better, as perfectly as I can, but that will come in time. I consider what he might find the most undesirable in this situation, then rank them by their probability.

"I believe your mother might come to investigate a strange car parked in front of your house if we were to stay here indefinitely," I say as though in jest. The idea of having him to myself would definitive end is almost addictively potent.

My mark has scored, and he looks rather nervous to be in the house before such a thing can happen.

"Yeah," he agrees, "I guess you're right."

The idea of him going off without me is so abhorrent, I cannot allow it, not without first securing a time when we will see each other again, the fact that I will be seeing him in less than a few hours aside.

"Can I pick you up for school tomorrow?" I inquire. "Give you a ride?"

"Yes," he says immediately, and it is almost as though he is eager to go if only to bring that moment closer. I can't let him go, not just yet. I want one more moment with him, one without fear, one where we can share a moment of intimacy, one that I can hold to me until I see him, awake again.

As he reaches for the handle, his attention on his actions, I lean in.

"And Ben," I say.

My measure was sound, and where he comes to halt is where I expected. Our faces are so close, I can count the crypts and collarettes of his irises, even in this light. His scent is overwhelming, and I let myself be overwhelmed by him, still and powerless to him. I decide that if he were to kiss me, that I would let him. I am sure, for the moment, that I am in enough control of myself for that.

But, at length, he does nothing but look upon me. And that is his choice, and I would not ask more than that, even if I had the right to.

"Have a good night," I say, letting my scent roll forth with my words. It is a very sweet smell, by all accounts. I am curious enough that I almost ask him if he likes it. Unfortunately, I am too amused by his attempt to exit the car that I cannot be distracted.

After finally finding the door handle and disentangling his feet from themselves and the car, he steps out and closes the door. And stands thus, waiting. I pull back, and just before I drive away, I confess to him, even though I know he cannot hear, "I love you."

I drive home.

Alice is upon the porch when I arrive. She is languishing, literally, prostrate upon the step in abject misery. I go over the night's events and have some idea of her distress.

 _Are you very angry with me?_

I exit the car and take her up. In her dejection, she apparently had not a thought to see how she would be received, so she is taken aback as I lift her into the air, swinging her about, invariably hollering my delectation into her face. It takes a relative moment, for I am moving at speed for our kind, for her to join me in my jubilance.

"Tell me everything!" she commands.

And I do. My lips fly through the telling of it, in every detail, from the moment I left until the present, leaving nothing out. I answer every question she has, picking them out of her head, conveying any alterations until her understanding of events mirrors my own to an astonishingly close degree. In real time, it took less than five minutes.

"Aw," she sighs, flitting upstairs to plant an impassioned kiss on a rather perplexed Jasper before returning to me, where we collapse, then and there in the drive, at odds, her hips at the level of my head and vice versa, our hands together as we looked at the stars. At last, it is my turn for questions.

"How does his future look?" I have to ask.

She smiles, "Nothing has changed."

"Really?" I ask, to contented to be more than barely disbelieving.

"Truly," she said. She showed me. I see the image, just as strong as before, the two selves of Ben, his death only the barest bit weaker than his vampire self.

"How is this even possible?" I ask. "You say yourself that the future is ever-changing. How can this point be so inflexible?"

She shows me. She had been holding back, hiding this small portion of her mind from me with all the skill she possessed, until this moment. Before now, I wasn't ready, and having the information would have driven me away from Ben. Knowing now what I do, I wouldn't want that, and moreover, I can see what would have happened had I pushed him away. I would have only come back, with lost time and unnecessary pain.

I see that idea formed in her mind. Somehow, Ben and I compliment each other in such a way that our choices nearly make themselves. Through completely unrelated events, both of us have come to the same conclusion; by choice, conscious or no, we both have decided the most important thing to our lives is the other. Our free will is not gone, simply directed so that our best choice is us. The only way for us to be parted is for us to willingly choose what we know to be wrong. And to that end, our destination is set, so hard that is the most solid imagine Alice has ever seen with her sight. And, whereas this knowledge would have terrified me before now, upon knowing it that moment, it gave me immutable hope. And with that hope, I knew what I wanted to do.

 _She's in her study,_ Alice informs me.

"Katherine," I say as I pass to just outside her door.

"Come," she says.

I step into her study, waiting for her to finish the paper she is reading.

 _Thank you,_ she allows as the finally comes to the end.

"What can I do for you?" she asks.

"I need your help," I say.

"At once," she says, "how may I?"

"Did you hear my recounting to Alice moments ago?" I ask.

"In part," she says with a warm smile. _Not everything you to say aloud is comprehensible to us of such a limited scope._

"The men," I clarify, "the ones who were about to attack Ben, who nearly attacked a young woman named Nancy; they cannot be left unaccountable for their misdeeds. I want very much to return to Port Angeles and find some way to peaceably bring them to justice. Yet, I do not believe that I am even tempered enough at present not to fall back to my old destructive habits. I need to be held accountable as well and help finding that peaceable way."

I must find a way to be worthy of him, must find a way to be someone that could benefit his life by being in it.

The pride that emanates from my mother's mind is staggering in its pervasiveness. She compares me to myself in the recent months, marking the changes, the direction my life was moving and now is, the improved decisions, the happiness and the love I am finding. She, unlike me, knew that such a path was always possible for me. She had faith that I would find it. She is genuinely happy for me.

"Come," she says, grabbing her medical kit from her desk. "We will go one foot. You need but to find them, and leave the rest to me."

We leave immediately, running across the state as the crow flies, and as we run into the city, I find that they are all still awake and together. I take Katherine to them, drinking in the garage of a nearby house, one or two almost unconscious. I indicate each in turn, and Katherine thanks me.

"I have the situation in hand, child," she says. "Be where I know you wish to be."

I kiss my mother's check, "Thank you!"

She smiles, "It is my pleasure, daughter."

We embrace, and I run home, to Ben.


	9. Chapter 9: Exchange

"Anything?" I ask as I breeze through the door and head up to change in my room.

"Not much," says Emanuel from the living room. "They announced a group of drunk men crashed into a police impound lot. No one was injured, but a few had outstanding warrants and were being questioned in connection to other crimes."

"Okay," I reply. "Rory, I am taking the Mercedes to pick up Ben, so you'll have to drive his M3."

Rory perks up mentally, but immediately tries to shove the reaction down, hoping I won't notice it.

"Oh really?" asks Emily. "You can't even let the guy get to school before you accost him?"

 _Or,_ she thinks, _maybe you're doing a little more than just talking!_

I do not raise to the bait. I simply smile because I get to see Ben!

 _Wait!_ demands Alice. She runs over and ties my hair back, doing the fastest job I have ever seen her do, not even bothering to speak.

 _But the way,_ she thinks, _the sun will be out Saturday in Seattle, You won't be able to do much with Ben there. Also, you should tell Rory and the others._

There will be time enough for that later. I am out the door at the speed of thought.

I time the travel as perfectly as I can. I don't know the average time he leaves the house, just the average time he has gotten to school over the last... week. Has it really only been a week? Given the hiatus of the weekend and the last three days, it feels so much longer, but also considerably shorter. The ratio of passing time to time spent with Ben is unacceptably high. I will have to remedy that. And he is willing!

I am sitting outside his house in the fog-laden, nearly as bouncy was Alice would be in this situation. I really hope my harebrained sister isn't rubbing off on me too terribly much. I sit and listen to Ben. He seems a little frustrated today, but that might have to do with the fact that it sounds like he is dropping every other object he holds. Finally, he grabs his bag and heads out into the morning...

I would have thought to meet me, but he is heading towards he truck. Has he forgotten?

He comes within sight of my car and then comes up short. Ah, he didn't know I was here.

He gives this odd sort of look and I want desperately to ask him what it means. But, I am starting to recognize that desperation for what it is; it comes from my pain. I fear that if I don't know something, everything about Ben, what is going through his mind when it does, it might be lost or forgotten or never known to me. The idea is almost unbearable, but it isn't real. I am not hurt by him in any way if I do not gain what I wish from him. I lose nothing, for I am entitled to nothing in the first place. I love Ben, whether he tells me his thoughts or feeling, or if he lies to my face. I still love him. Nothing will change that.

I decide then and there to ask him nothing that a curious compatriot wouldn't ask. I will, however, answer any question he might ask.

He finally seems to collect himself and moves quickly to his side of the car. He is moving faster than usual, and I find myself torn between enjoying his own excitement at wanting to be at my side sooner and worry that he might trip and injure himself unnecessarily.

I smiled broadly at him as he enters, and something almost feels as though it fits itself back into place with my chest, as though some internal mechanism was unknowingly out of alignment and has not been set right. It feels almost warm, and I long to touch him. Again, I decide to do nothing on this score.

"Good morning," I greet him companionably, and then because it is the social norm and because I cannot help myself, I ask, "how did you sleep?"

Last night was a wonder to me.

Ben was inconsolably restless without me. I could here it before I had arrived. Some how, he had begun to unconsciously recognize me there, and without me, his nights were not so restful. As soon as I arrived in the room, he relaxed some, but it wasn't until I knelt beside him and took his hand that he truly calmed down. Well, relatively anyway. He spent the rest of the night giving long breathes that could only be described as sighs in his sleep, saying my name with a degree of contentment, it was all I could do not to simply curl beside him. It was a treasured night, and it was only the first of mean.

I take the barest fraction of an instant to consider what this means as I begin driving us to school. At this moment, it is only the beginning. We have had many beginnings, each with more depth of meaning, with more care, with greater wonder and majesty to me. The evening last was truly the best of in the thirty one thousand five hundred and eight six days since I had become what I am. And each night had the possibility of being as gratifying a night, if not more so. I couldn't conceive of such a notion. It seems impossible. It is like Ben; a thing I didn't think could be.

"Good, good," he answers. "How about you?"

I try no to laugh. No one has asked me how I slept going on fifty years. Honestly, the hotel trade has been considerably less personal since those days. But back to Ben.

"Not at all," I say, smiling. The pretense that we dispensed with the night before must be maintained, and this seems the best first opportunity to make that clear.

"Good," he replies before my words since in. His confusion is so endearing.

"Wait," he says as he tries to make sense of what I have said. "What?"

I laugh. I cannot help it!

"I don't sleep," I explain.

Even with the explanation before him, he cannot quite get there.

"You don't..." he says, trailing away.

"Sleep," I finish for him.

It finally begins to form in his mind, to make sense. I suddenly watch as the details begin forming themselves in his mind, watch as be beings to relate to me more, to understand me better. I feel miraculous joy that I don't know how to express or voice.

"Like ever?" he asks.

"No," I affirm. "It is not a thing we do."

I cannot quite bring myself to call myself what I am. He knows. I should only bring it up when necessary. But even without saying the words, I feel nervous. I realize that I am not quite over the fear that he will reject me should I point out that I am truly not human too often.

"What do you do all night?" he asks, sounding both intrigued and curious.

I smile. I really should quite doubting him. Even should I be right, how can I fairly expect him to be more perfect than he so obviously already is?

"My family and I all have our own pursuits," I explain to him. "We do whatever we wish, but mostly things that give our true natures away."

"Such as?" he asks.

I am not ready to admit that I watch him sleep. I do not trust that he will understand just yet. It is too easy to be misconstrued and I do not want him to feel as though I took advantage and whatever other excuses I can make to be dishonest.

I can't but smile at my own stupidity as I say, "It depends. Whatever is peaking our interest at the time."

 _Like you,_ I think.

"Study," I go on, "feats of skill or strength or dexterity, contests and various recreations, general observation, and, for the rest of my family, shall we say... affection."

He blushes slightly and looks out the window, muttering, "I see."

I laugh, managing to keep it at a human level. I want it to ring off the buildings and the far mountains, but he might not appreciate that in the confined space.

"You're cute when you're embarrassed," I say, wanting once again to touch him. But then he seems offended, which makes me laugh all the more.

"Wow," he says at last, looking out to see Rory's car, which I parked next to.

"That's new," he comments.

"Relatively, yes," I say, remembering this morning. "Rory was glad of the excuse. Outside of the Mercedes, this is the least expensive vehicle we have readily available."

"It's nice," he replies as we step out of the car.

I am unsure what he will do next. I know what I would like him to do, but I sort of can't bare the idea of getting my hopes up just to have them dashed. But, true to form, Ben rounds to me, offering his arm. He looks a little self conscious, a little unsure, and this reflection of my own slight worry heartens me and lets me feel as though we are truly in this together. I put my arm on his, and do so with all the closeness that I could want, letting go all worry, adoring him and walking beside him.

"So," he says, his usual casting around expression on his face, "what does your family know about me?"

I look down, considering. I haven't told them all of it. Alice and Katherine are the only ones I know for sure know that Ben knows about our kind. I am not sure how much more the others do. But that is my burden and I needn't worry him about it.

"They know all about you," I say charitably. "They are incredulous more than anything."

"Why?" he asks, sounding a bit surprised.

I look over and up at him. He looks to me, and his gate and the ground make him a bit unsteady. I say not, but steady him so that I can remain look at him. It takes me a brief eternity to realize that I am not actually speaking any more and I have gotten lost in him. I wish that there was more time, but I don't think there is enough time for me to ever be tired of losing myself in him. Especially when he is losing himself right back.

 _There is no freaking way in hell! How do the son of a bitch pull this off! NOT POSSIBLE!_

I sigh at Jesse, brought back down to earth. Ben asked me a question, so how could I not answer, "If you think my behavior seems erratic to you, just imagine what it must seem like to them."

He looks forward again and nods, understanding and slightly amused.

I follow his eyes and find Jesse, waiting for Ben. I subtly urge us in that direction.

 _Oh, crap! They are coming this way. So much for asking him what happened last night. Think of something, think of something!_

"Hey Jesse," I greet him, putting on my friendly teenage girl persona. I think I overdo it, given that suddenly both their hearts start racing, though Ben's only a little more so than his usually does in my presence. Jesse's mind goes a little blank, only reflecting what his eyes see and his mind hears. Then, after a brief bout of him considering an entire new line of fantasies, he composes himself.

"Did I loan you my Trig notes?" he asks Ben, trying to sound casual.

"No," says Ben, looking confused.

 _Ha! At least he didn't point out that I don't take notes in Trig._

"Damn," he says.

 _Crap, I don't want to sound bad in front of her._

"I mean," he says, stumbling over his words, "darn. I guess I'll see in there. Bye."

He dashes quickly away.

 _He is going to tell me everything in Trig! I don't care if I have to torture him! Are they, what? Dating? Oh, come on! The fairness of the world does not exist! How did this asshole pull this off!?_

I would have started to dislike his mental barrage of Ben, if I couldn't tell that it was all friendly.

"What was that about?" asks Ben.

"He wanted to ask you about last night," I immediately inform him.

He glances at me, momentarily surprised, before saying, "Oh right."

He actually forgot that that I could read minds? His ability to accept me as non human is only surpassed by his ability to forget that I am something other. I show my affection by lightly squeezing him arm and smiling up at my sweet boy.

"He is going to talk to you in class," I confess to him, "ask you about me and whatnot."

He stiffens beside me, looking dismayed.

"Um," he says, his voice with the barest hint of a quaver. "What should I say?"

We start walking towards his first class.

"If you wouldn't mind," I say, grinning crookedly at him for my little joke, "I'd prefer that you didn't mention that I'm not human. You can consider it a personal favor if you want."

"No," he says, seriously almost oblivious to must jest, "I won't say anything about that."

I try not to laugh and embarrass him further.

I notice as I consider what all else to reveal, that I am just as curious to what Ben's answers might be.

"He also wants to know if we are dating," I relay to him.

He swallows audibly. I might have heard even if I were human.

"Are we?" he asks.

The idea feels me with a warm rush, as though a tone of purest pleasure were ringing through me, vibrating all that I am. That I should be allow such a degree of happiness, given what I am, seems like some universal oversight. I will take it, none the less.

"I wouldn't know," I say honestly. "I've never dated anyone before."

He looks at the ground.

"I haven't either," he says, sounding very vulnerable at this admission.

I stop us at the door to his class. I would like to do this properly, as the humans do, but how to do it in such a way that Ben might understand...

"I would like to date you," I say to him, picking my words carefully. "But as I understand it, both our traditions dictates that I am asked, rather than do the asking."

His response is nearly instantaneous.

"Will you go out with me?" he asks.

I would have thought that it would have taken time, not that he wouldn't want to go out with me, but that the idea of us dating might be something he couldn't understand or might deny himself for the impossibility I once thought it was. But no; he seems so eager that he is willing to forgo his preconceived notion that I might not want him. Even he cannot keep himself from me. I like that a lot, obviously more than I should.

"Yes," I say. Neither can I keep myself from him.

His breath is ragged, uneven as he looks upon me, in wonder, a wonder that I am coming to deeply appreciate. What is he thinking now!?

And then, as though a cloth is being lifted, I realize that I will have the opportunity to witness his mind firsthand. He had so recently forgotten that I can read minds, that I can listen in on the thoughts of others, others who might be asking him about me, in Trig.

"What?" he asks.

I must have been letting the expression show on my face. I cannot seem to care. He will likely forget again. But it isn't like I am being dishonest about such a thing. I am simply not mentioning my plans. And, I am sure I can get away with a further distraction, to help him forget. That could be acceptable, yes? But what to do...

I look into his face, knowing what I want more than anything in this moment. I smile at him, and hear the affects that smile has one his heart, his breathing, watch his eyes widen, both in lid and pupil. I draw my mind together, focusing entirely on controlling my hand and memorizing every single detail that is before and about me. I reach my hand up slowly, savoring every moment, as I touch his hair, brushing a few tendrils that have may their way upon his face.

As soon as they are in place, I drop my hand. Smiling once more, I turn and walk away.

"See you at lunch," I say over my shoulder, listen to the slamming of his heart and his shuttering breath in my wake.

Getting to third period took nearly as long as the three days previous. However, this time, I had Ben with me, if only in the thoughts around him, and thus in me. He looked nervous, when multiplied exponentially as the fateful period arrived. At last, he walked with trepidation towards Trigonometry.

Technically, thought he is verily bouncing his seat, Jesse is quiet. His thoughts, however, are another matter, entirely.

 _WHERE IS HE!?_

Ben finally arrives, looking like a skittish dog fearing a beating. He might receive on, if only verbally.

"Tell me everything!" Jesse expounds, doing all he can not to shake Ben in his eagerness.

Ben opens his mouth, but then, seems to come up short. He looks into Jesse's eyes, and though I have no idea how, he meets mine, through him. And in that moment, I understand that he knows. He figured it out. And he looks so grief-stricken, I laugh aloud, right in the middle of Ms. Mason's morning announcements. I stifle myself, returning my attention to what is really important.

 _What the heck does that look mean?_

"Are you okay dude?" asks Jesse.

Ben closes his mouth.

"Sorry," he says, trying to play his response off as momentary distraction. "I just remembered something totally unfair. I mean... Never mind."

This time, it takes my hands clamped over my mouth not to laugh again. Did I not have self control at one point!?

"Dude," Jesse demands. "Spill!"

"Okay," Ben says with a near stutter. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything!" he says, loud enough that Mrs. Varner almost can't pretend that she hasn't noticed them.

"Just," Ben says, his searching glance around nearly panicked, "keep your voice down, will you?"

"What happened last night?" Jesse insists.

"She took me to dinner," Ben says flatly.

 _Does he think I'm_ that _stupid?!_

"I know that," he says. "What else happened?"

"She drove me home," Ben says, and his attempts to downplay the evening are already completely pointless.

 _There is no way he is going to hide this from me,_ thinks Jesse. _Why would he want to!? He wasn't hiding this morning. If the whole school isn't talking about this by lunchtime, I will swear off girls for a month! Okay, a week... oh but Saturday... Focus!_

"Oh come on," he says. "I saw how chummy you two were this morning. You're going to tell me nothing happened?"

A change comes over Ben. He looks upset, angry almost, so much so that he seems to need to control himself.

"I don't like what you're insinuating Jesse," he says, his voice hard. "About me or her."

"Whoa whoa whoa," he said, but what he is thinking is, _Me thinks he doth protests too much!_

"Dude, chill," he says, still trying to calm Ben down. "I don't mean it like that. Take it down a notch."

Ben sighs, seeming to let go of his anger. I am touched.

 _I don't get it,_ thinks Jesse. _He doesn't even seem to like girls. I have seen him covertly checking them out a time or two, but he has never shown much interest in them. I get it. She is hotter than the surface of the sun in July, but there is something more here._

"You must really like her, man," Jesse comments.

Ben looks away, doing little more than raising and drooping his shoulders.

 _He is not getting off that easily!_

"No," Jesse says, shifting in his seat. "Don't just shrug. Come on, talk to me."

Ben doesn't reply.

 _Oh come on!_ _He has to know how insanely luck he is! Talk about that! Get him bragging! Then I know he'll talk!_

"Dude," Jesse says, dropping his voice for the beginning of class, "Do you know how many guys wish they were you right now? All of them! Lot of the girls too. Can't you let me have some vicarious fun here!?"

Ben concedes. I can see through Jesse that he knows he will not be able to sit, closed lipped about this. He relents.

 _Finally!_ Jesse thinks before Ben can even answer, "What do you want to know?"

"Are you guys dating?" he asks.

Ben pinks up, "Yes."

I want to run to him and take his face in my hands! He is so cute and lovely and sweet and we're _dating_!

Jesse scoots closer to Ben, his voice going to a conspiratorial whisper as class begins in earnest.

"You ask her and she ask you?" he asks.

"I asked her," Ben says. Before Jesse can formulate another question, he seems to have a bought of conscience and adds, "though she made it pretty clear that she would say yes if I did."

 _Huh,_ thinks Jesse. _That's odd. I mean, I get that she has high standards and all, but what about Ben makes him worthy of her? Does she like him?! Why!?_

Jesse nods, "What did you guys talk about yesterday?"

Ben looks nervous, searching around again.

"We just talked about each other, mostly," Ben says, his voice guarded, but honest. "She told me about herself and her family, various traits and pastimes."

"Such as?" Jesse asks.

 _What sorts of things to the rich do!?_

"I can't say," Ben says, shaking his head. "It's private, you know? Talk to her yourself. She'll tell you if she wants you to know."

 _Right,_ thinks Jesse. _As though I can form words around her._

"No way!" Jesse whispers through his laughter. "I don't know how you can just sit and talk to her. Doesn't she scare you?"

I sit up straight. That is a question I hadn't considered to ask him. Would he answer me honestly? Will he answer honestly even though I am not there? What would that mean if I do? What should I do, either way?

"Scare me?" Ben asks, as though the idea has never occurred to him. How could it not occur to him!?

But then something crosses his face. It is a wonder upon him, one that I haven't seen too often so far, but one I hope to see again, and often; inspiration.

"Oh yeah," he says with heavy sarcasm, his eyes meeting mine again. "She's a real monster."

Now, I need both hands to cover mouth and nose to cover my nearly explosive laughter.

"You know what I mean," Jesse says. "But she likes you."

 _I have no idea why!_

"Do you like her?" he asks. It takes too much effort to be annoyed at Jesse. Especially when he asks such questions!

I am on the edge of my seat, both literally and figuratively.

"Yeah," Ben says immediately, but soon after starts to fidget and looks uncomfortable.

 _No, that won't do at all! I need some detail, some scope!_

"No," he says aloud. "I mean, on a scale from 'she's nice' to 'oh my god I must tap that!'."

Ben turns a bright red, a look of near disgust upon his face.

"Pick... a different... scale," he says, his teeth clenched mightily.

 _If he doesn't want to go in for the sex stuff, though why wouldn't he?! I guess I can ask about the actual romantic stuff._

The thought catches me up short. Ben couldn't want me, not in that way. After all, human girls are warm, soft, pliable, flush with life and circulation. I was none of these things, and he knew that now more than ever. And yet, nothing I could ever recall of him leads me to believe that he finds my touch or body repulsive, as I would expect.

"Fine," Jesse is saying. "On a scale from friend to you considering proposing, where are you?"

"I don't know, Jesse," Ben says, blushing even more deeply. "We've only had the one date. I mean, we haven't even-"

 _OOH OOH OOH!_

"What?" he asks, his eagerness barely allowing him to keep his seat. "Haven't even what?"

"I don't know," Ben says, pacing his words, a reluctance and, could it possibly be disappointment?

"I don't know how... physical a relationship we're going to have," he finally says.

 _That_ _ **SUCKS**_ _!_

"Other than taking my arm," Ben says, sounding genuinely dejected, "she has barely touched me. She seems sort of... old fashioned."

"That sucks," Jesse repeats aloud.

I am unable to form words. How could I have been so foolish!? How could I have allowed Ben to think that I didn't desire him physically just as ardently and reverently as I did romantically? I only feared for his safety. Had I... had I done what I wished to, I could have... could have...

"It's okay," Ben says, a small smile finding its way onto his face, "She's worth it."

I feel as though the earth has fallen away beneath me and I am in free fall. What? What did he say?

A flash of juvenile daydreams flash across Jesse's mind.

"Yeah she is!" he says, his tone implicating those daydreams plainly.

"No," Ben protests, "I don't mean it like that."

Jesse feels not so much disgruntled as he does curious.

"What did you mean then?" he asks.

Something comes into Ben's face. I could call it many things, yet not any of them seem to fit perfectly; admiration, adoration, wonder, awe, empathy, care, delight, peace, compassion, longing...

"She's amazing," he says. I feel the most poignant joy and pain, in equal measure. He truly and undeniably cares about me. At least, undeniable to those who have eyes to recognize it.

"Yeah she is!" Jesse says in nearly the same tone as before.

"I'm not talking about her looks," Ben says, sounding heated. "I mean who she is, what she wants, how she lives. I can't really put it into words. It's like, she's the best person that I know. I can't imagine ever doing anything that would make me deserving of someone like her."

What? WHAT!?

 _Do you need me?_

 _Edwina?_

Jasper and Alice have noticed me. Jasper is no doubt picking up on my distress, and Alice has seen what I might do. I catch the image of me, sitting in the chair I sit now, until long after school has ended, trying to come to grips with Ben's words.

How? How could he possibly think that of me? ME!? I am a monster, a fiend. I sneak into his room every night, without his consent. I am a murderer, a thief, a killer, a liar, a betrayer, selfish, harsh, thoughtless, indifferent, unfeeling, heartless, hopeless, self-centered, inhuman, flawed, evil, dead thing.

And yet...

Ben is not a liar. Or, at the very least, he would not be so blatantly dishonest. He thought that I was the best person he knew. Was he blind!? Diluted? Insane!?

Or...

Was it possible that he truly felt that way? The person, the boy I loved, who meant most to me in all the world, saw me as I saw him. Was it even possible? Could he... actually love me?

Alice relax at my thoughts, and I see me standing when the bell rings for next period. As she relaxes, so does Jasper. Everything will be alright. More than alright. I am not completely certain of Ben's sanity, but I am hopeful. _I_ am _hopeful_!

At last, I come back to myself. Class is nearly over. I turn back to Jesse, mentally speaking.

"Enough about me," Ben is saying. "What about you? How was your date with Mickie?"

Ben has gone on the defense. I cannot complain. I got more than I could have asked for. And I have more than enough to digest. I am the closest I have ever been to sleep all through Gym. All I have to do is mention to Coach Clapp that I am not feeling well, merely hinting at the human female reproductive cycle, and she is about to call the nurse to come and wheel me away. I settle for sitting in an empty office while the class plays badminton, nearly oblivious to the world, still and silent. How do I even come to grips with what he said? I love him, but do I trust him enough to believe him, despite what I know is right?

Coach lets us out early, and me especially, and I do not comment or wonder too much about it. All my thoughts are already on Ben. I am so glad I get to see him again! I wonder how hard it would be to get into a few more of his classes. I wonder how hard it would be to pretend to learn with him beside me.

I move while no one can see me and am leaning against the school building proper when the bell rings.

"I'm guessing you aren't going to be sitting with us today, right?" Jesse is asking, as though he can't already tell. As soon as they approach and see me, he laughs, "See you Ben."

I don't look at him at first. I listen. His breath, the drumming of his heart, the pull of his muscles, the uneven cadence of his step as he comes to stand beside me.

"Hey," he says

"Hey," I say, considering everything I want to say and everything I don't know how to, not yet anyway. I look upon him, and in an instant, get lost in him. Then, I loop my arm and his and walk with him to the cafeteria. I don't know how to start, but I know how I want to begin.

"I would like to buy you lunch," I say to him.

"Okay," he response, reluctant as I thought he would be. I place my free hand upon the biceps of the arm that is looped through mine.

"I don't have many people in my life who I care enough about to wish to dote on," I say as a confession, "and even fewer who would accept it if I did. I know you don't like people doing things for you, but this a tiny thing. Won't you let me buy you lunch?"

His eyes are somewhat unfocused. They follow my face, my lips, look into my eyes, and around, as though trying to make sense of what he is seeing. He sounds a little breathless as he says,"Okay."

Somehow, I feel as though I have taken advantage. But, he doesn't seem to mind. We continue through the lunch line, as so many of the other couples humans about us. In many ways, we are getting a lot of attention, even from my other siblings. But in others, I am blending in better than I ever have before.

I buy a try, adding a little of everything, curious as to what exactly he will eat. As soon as I pay and we are heading to our table, I notice that he isn't quite so agreeable as he was before.

"It's really not fair," he says, taking the tray from my hands in a courteous manner that is humorously at odds with his tone, "you dazzling me like that."

The very idea pleases me in a way that I didn't really expect. After all, to use his phrase, I dazzle men all the time.

"I dazzle you?" I ask, speculatively.

He sets the tray between us, and I wonder if he remembers that I won't actually be eating any of it. This time, we sit on the same side of the table. No more diametric opposites here.

"Frequently," he says, taking up a slice of pizza.

I decide that it isn't polite to show just how much I am enjoying this conversation. I glance over at Mickie, who's thoughts are painful in how loud and aggressive they are. She is recounting the total number of ways she would like to kill me or humiliate me. At the moment, she is thinking of copulating with Ben on the hood of the Mercedes whilst school is letting out. When that doesn't thrill her enough, she switches to a fantasy of something similar, only this time, she and Ben are throttling me as she writhes against him, her back to his front. It take genuine effort to tune her out. I am tempted to walk over to her and whisper what I know, just to shut her up.

"You totally listened, didn't you?"

It doesn't takes the slightly accusing tone in his voice for me to understand what Ben means.

I quickly put on an innocent face, since trying to do anything else would reveal just how hard it is to bare what I heard, as well as how much it thrilled me.

"Would I do that?" I say, not completely convincingly.

"Yes," he says outright. I can't help but titter girlishly. I like feeling like just another girl. It is almost addictive!

"Any thoughts on the conversation?" he asks, trying to sound casual.

"Millions," I affirm, quickly collating a list in my head of the ones I want to ask the most.

Rory's interest is peaked by our conversation. He has picked up on something going on that isn't the sort of idle chit chat between two humans.

 _Oh, great,_ thinks Alice. I see the image of my Aston Martin in flames. I manage not to sigh.

Ben looks more than a little astounded, "Any you care to share?"

"A few," I say, amused.

"Such as?" he asks.

I can't help but tease him, at least a little.

"Do you really think I'm a monster?" I ask, utterly serious.

"Of course not!" he rolls his eyes. "I was only teasing you."

Rory starts filling in blanks. Even Emily is starting to notice.

"Okay," I say, distracted. I need to try and by some time, to think of how to handle this. Or get my car out of state until Rory calms down. But, equally, I want to know more on a particular subject.

"Does it bother you?" I ask.

"Does what bother me?" he asks in return.

I keep my voice even, leaving nothing in it of my own desires, simply my words so that he may know them and reply.

"That we don't have a more physical relationship," I clarify.

"I don't know," he says thoughtfully. "I guess I hadn't really thought too much about it. I mean, is such a thing even possible for us?"

Too late. Alice has to intercede. She calms Rory down enough that he decides against destroying my car. He is even thinking about the piano, which shows just how angry he is. The very idea that he could do that to Emanuel, just to spite me.

 _Really, Edwina,_ thinks Alice. _This is unfair. We watch out for one another, but you are putting me in a position where I have to intervene or else! You are taking me for granted. You know better than this._

She is right. I did. I could do better. I would do better. I do the best that I can and give each of my siblings brief sad and apologetic looks, saying to each that I am sorry and that I will speak to them in turn when we are home. I do this all quickly and quietly, without a noticeable break in the conversation with Ben.

"I don't know either," I continue. "I wasn't sure until that conversation if it was something that you would have wanted. I didn't think you would be interested in this... body, if you knew what I am."

Rory leaves the cafeteria. Emily follows.

Ben looks at me, and suddenly, something wells up in him. His skin warms, his blood flow increases to his skin. His eyes dilate, and his heart and breathing rates increase. For the first time I have known him, within my senses, he is honestly aroused.

It doesn't last long.

"Is there some reason I shouldn't what to?" he asks.

I am not sure that what takes him out of it, the idea that there might be a reason that we can't be intimate or if he really just wants to continue the conversation. I choose to think it is the latter.

"Aside from the fact that if I was not utterly and totally careful, I could kill you quite easily, no," I admit. It doesn't seem to be enough, somehow, almost dishonest.

"But," I go on, "this body is hard, and cold and..."

"Yours," he interrupts me, some how doing it politely. "That's all I need to know."

I am sure that if I could, I would be blushing. Unbelievably, I feel shy. I have to avert my eyes before I feel comfortable smiling my fullest. I feel so elated that I cannot but tease him further.

"So," I say meaningfully, "what sort of physical activities did you have in mind?"

"Excuse me?" he says, his eyes bulging and his voice catching.

"You're adorable," I grin at him. But I am so curious, I continue on, "You were offended when Jesse mention the idea of use having sex."

He immediately blushes.

"I didn't mean," he splutters before his tone drops. "Well, it's just that..."

He looks so distraught, so worried. I am seriously tempted to put my hand to his face, to twine my fingers in his, to wrap my arms around him, all things that I have no idea if he will find more comforting than uncomfortable.

"I'm sort of..." he says low and vulnerable. "I'm a virgin."

I become still.

Of course he is. Why was this not a conclusion I had drawn myself? Most boys his age had explored or experimented, many with more than one conquest to their name. Somehow, I thought that he must have. In all honesty, a disappointing post-coital split would explain a lot of why he felt so rejected by the fairer sex. And yet, no. He was untouched. In this one thing, we are truly the same.

"Oh," I say simply.

He eats some of his pizza, trying to cover his embarrassment."

"I told you," he points out. "I've never dated anyone before."

He had. But for truth, one can have little bearing upon the other. When will I learn not to underestimate him.

"Why not?" I ask, for I must know how such a thing as he is possible.

"Because," he goes on, "until you, no one I met really appealed to me. I had my share of crushes, but as soon as we actually talked, I saw that it was all in my head."

"Just because you don't date someone," I say, voicing my thoughts, "doesn't mean you can't have sex with them."

"I wouldn't," he says with little inflection. "I would never..."

He appears to become too embarrassed to continue and changes the subject. Who am I to deny him?

"Are we still on for Seattle of Saturday?" he asks.

I am disheartened that I will have to tell him I can't go. I take the cowards path and decide to tease him instead of bring it up just yet.

"Anything to get out of the dance?" I poke fun at him. "Or being embarrassed. Or both!"

He tries very hard not to smile back, "I really can't dance."

"Of course you can," I say assuredly. "It's all about your partner."

He looks amazed and shakes his head, "It is really hard to believe that only a week has gone by since that day. It feel so much longer."

I think about everything that has happened between this moment and that one.

"I know what you mean," I agree. "It feels like an eternity."

"Yeah," he says. "Though I don't think it would have been so bad if you were in Forks the whole time."

I am afraid. I realize that this is a perfect moment to come clean, but I don't know what his reaction will be. I decide to be done underestimating him.

"I was," I say simply.

He reacts about as well as can be expected. He look furious.

"What!" he nearly yells. "Why weren't you in school?"

"I couldn't," I say, keeping my voice down. "It's an issue with sunlight."

His anger drops noticeably as he considers my words. He is curious, but he doesn't seem to want to let go of his frustration at the moment.

"You could have told me," he says, trying to sound indignant.

"Why?" I ask. What reason had I to tell him? It would have just raised too many question I couldn't have answered.

"I don't like being away from you," he says, sounding hurt even. "It made those three days unbearably long."

I am torn between feeling sorrowful for causing him loneliness and feeling thrilled by said longing for me.

"I'll tell you what," I say, finding that this is the perfect moment. "Are you attached to going to Seattle Saturday?"

"I'm not going to the dance," he says, almost as though it is a threat.

I cannot help laughing aloud.

"No, no," I say adoringly. :What I mean is, that day will be sunny. I will have to stay out of sun, utterly. Which means if we go, what we can do together will be very, very limited. I was wondering, would you be open to doing anything else?"

"Such as?" he asks, interested.

"Staying with me," I offer.

"Of course," he says instantly. I swell. I hope to never grow tired of him saying yes

"But why?" he asks, curious now. "Where will you be?"

"I will be where no one can see me," I explain. "No one but me and my family, at least. And you, if you should so choose."

I am inviting him into my world. I want him to be at home in it.

"Why?" he asks, his curiosity large, but not stronger than my anticipation.

I smile at him.

"You'll have to wait and see," I say mysteriously, "but suffice it to say, I cannot be seen in sunlight."

I see it in my mind, the meadow I sometime visit on sunny days, a glorious, godly place, splendid and fine. I want to share it with him.

"Okay," he agrees.

Alice gasps. The image in her head wavers. It is Ben, in the meadow, in my arms, drained and white. It is now even, perfectly balance between that, and an image of us, in the grass, kissing. Both images thrill me.

 _Please,_ Alice begs in her mind. _Please, don't. He is going to be my brother! I will love him too!_

"Okay?" I ask, trying to cover up the slip, the lapse, the potential destruction of the world as I know it.

"Okay," he says, trust thick and apparent in his every word. "I'll stay with you."

The image shifts back to its previous ratio of nearly even, but with a favor towards me not killing him. I am relieved.

"But what will we do?" he asks, his curiosity as insatiable as mine usually is.

I consider telling him nothing. No, I cannot be that cruel.

"There is a meadow that I know of," I say to him. "It isn't too far. We could spend the day there, if you like."

"Okay," he says, a smile finding its way onto his face. "Sounds good."

He begins eating again, and I am instantly lost in watching him, all his little mannerism and habits and foibles and tidbits.

"What?" he asks self-consciously.

"Nothing," I say. "I just like to watch you eat."

He tries to ignore me and continue eating, unsuccessfully.

"Could you talk or something?" he asks.

"Why?" I ask back. It is my turn to be curious now.

"I feel embarrassed," he admits. "I'm just sitting here. I can't talk and eat at the same time. Talk about something that you want to talk about or want to tell me. There's no reason for you to just sit there when you could be doing something else."

I realize in that moment, that he is afraid. More than that; he is in pain, as relayed to me by Jasper. He is so used to thinking that he is worthless, that he seems to push away anything that reminds him that he is worth something. It is almost as though he cannot bare to have good things in his life because he can't bare losing them. It is so close to what I feel, it wretches me.

"You believe there is something I'd rather be doing?" I ask.

"Besides just staring at me?" he questions before answering himself. "Yeah."

"There isn't," I say, shaking my head. "You don't know... my kind well enough to understand this, but we don't see the world the same way humans do. We don't get bored or tired the same way. When I say that I could stare at you, doing nothing else, for literal hours, I'm being serious."

"I'll believe that when I see it," he snorts.

I laugh. I do spend hours doing this, but he cannot tell because his eyes are closed.

"You have no idea," I say. I cannot let this stand. I must let him know. I must help him see. Even if I cannot tell him that I love him now, as much because I am afraid how he will respond as I am unsure how to convey the true meaning those words entail to me, I must help him to see that I understand him, and know him, and that he has so much more value than he understands. And, with the vision Alice just saw looming in the back of my mind, I need to offer him the chance to be safe. Being alone with me might not be as safe as I thought it would be. I may kill him on Saturday.

"You believe that I'm worth it," I say, using the words that he did in his conversation to Jesse, betraying no regret, "worth more than you, but you don't seem to know how much you're worth, or what you might lose by being with me. I am here because I think I just might be strong enough to be with you, without hurting you, but for someone like you, settling for that is just so... precarious."

I think about just how careful I have to be with him, all the time. I must make sure I don't hurt him, in so many ways. I barely trust myself to keep him safe. A weird thought occurs to me.

"If it was anyone else," I say aloud, "I don't think I could trust them to with you..."

"So, what?" he asks with his eyebrow high. "It's you or no one?"

I laugh and he smiles in return. I adore his smile.

"No," I say, still grinning, "I meant that if you were to date anyone else like me, anyone who had to work not to do you harm, I couldn't trust them to do so. It would be... too hard."

It is so hard to simply trust myself.

"How much I'm worth?" he asks, unsure. "What does that mean?"

I shake my head. How to convey it to his mind?

"You don't have the senses I do," I say, "but it is true; I know the students here better than any other student, most better than they know themselves. I see their minds and their actions, in perfect clarity, and they are shameless, selfish, self center, egotistic liars, with a few exceptions. None of them hold a thousandth the interest you hold for me. You unreadable mind might have been what caught my attention about you, but who you are, the person you are, at your core, is astounding to me."

Somehow, I don't think I did the job properly.

The bell rings, and he looks startled.

"Stupid, obnoxious interrupting bell," he mutters in a way that I am sure he doesn't realize I can hear. He smile at him, and he carries the food to the trash, our arms once again linked as we leave for Biology.

Once we are together, at our chairs in the class room, I find that I am less interested in talking with Ben. It is strange, for all the time I have spent in this seat, ready to claw at my face for relief from the agony of not knowing, now, I am comfortable, content even, not having to ask. I want simply to be with him, and need not a thing else.

And, as though the fates have conspired to my advantage, Ms. Banner wheels in an AV cart laden with an old style television and videocassette recorder. She turns on a video, expounding on the variety and method of flower reproduction. The video itself is old. I recall watching it in the early eighties. The fact that the score greatly resembles the bass commonly heard in 1970's pornographic films is either deeply ironic or truly inspired.

The darkness that surround Ben and I is like a veil, shielding us from any would-be aggressors or detractors. Even Mickie's thoughts, loathing and loathsome as they might be, seem far away. We are together and protected, our personal boundaries somehow lessened within a singular protection, unifying us.

I feel him so poignantly next to me, our magnetism having us sitting huddled together. The heat that begins to cascade off of his body in waves, each feeling like a caress against my skin. Each breath washes flames down my throat and ripples across my skin, his sweet, delicious scent clinging to me, inspire words like edible and delectable and savory in me, with entry different connotations than feeding upon him. I want to know what each touch could feel like, aside from hand to hand or hand to face. I want to know what the underside of his foot feels like against my Cubital fossa. I want to know what his sternum feels like pressed against my ear, feeling his heartbeat. I want to know what his stomach feels like pressed against the small of my back. I want to know what his bare knees feel like interconnected around my bent and bare knees. I want to know what his saliva feels like on me. I want to feel his hair on my hair. I want to know what his eyelashes feel like against my abdomen. I want to feel him, all of him, against the all of me.

It doesn't take someone with my senses to know that Ben is in the exact same situation I am in. His arousal would be obvious to many humans, could they see him. As it is, at this distance, I can hear his blood, including the minor eddies created by vascular constriction. It might as well be blaring from loudspeaks and be flashing in neon.

I turn and look at him, take him in with my sight, drink him in, bearing witness to him, letting him see that I do not think less of him and that I accept him unconditionally. I do all I can not to let my own interest in him start to weigh upon my consciousness, upon my decision making abilities, but I can feel myself wanting to give in and am unable to hold myself at bay for long.

Slowly, almost langerously, I scrap my teeth across my lower lip, as humans do to moisten them, almost unconsciously. I want to kiss him so badly, the unsaited desire feels as though it will manifest itself as physical pain if I do not do something. I smile at what it could feel like, what other sensations likely to follow would feel like.

He turns back to the film, as though he will lose all control if he does not discract himself. I understand the feeling well. After a brief reprieve, the bell rings and class is over.

I escort him towards gym, feeling his hesitency beside me. He is embarrassed, and considering the degree of fear that most teenage boys have about feeling sexual, it is understandable. We stop before we have to part ways so I can go to Spanish.

"I'm sorry," he says, practically ashamed.

"Don't be," she said, too sympathetic to actually be amused. But then, as I am thinking about it, I realize that he has no idea just how much I was in similar straits. The very idea that it might be possible... That we might...

"I don't mind, at all," I say, feeling the desire pull, wishing that we were alone, in the meadow at this very moment. "But perhaps, we should limit that sort of physical contact, at least until I'm sure we can handle it."

"Handle it?" he asks, his body trembling ever so slightly, his arousal flaring momentarily.

I let go. I have to make sure he is safe. That is the most important. So I smile at him, returning myself to my usual posture and manner.

"I could hurt you if I am not careful," I inform him. "I am, after all, very strong. If I am not entirely focus, as I was the day of the accident, I could several injure you. I would be very unhappy should I inadvertently cause your death."

The teasing is not only to lighten the mood, but my gaze is direct. I want him to take this seriously.

"Okay," he says, as though it is such a heavy burden, maintaining his life and safety when offered against getting to... touch me. "I suppose I could behave myself."

I look at him, relaxing, so happy to have him with me, but then, something is shifting. He holds his breathe and leans a little closer towards me. I am as still as I can without drawing undo attention to me, and, inside, I am screaming and singing in equal measure. He takes on of the loose tendrils of hair the Alice left free, holding it between thumb and forefinger. With the barest pressure, he draws his hand back down, letting the hairs slide against his skin. As he passes, the back of his hand and finger drifts against my skin, the lightest and barest touches had can manage with his human abilities. It feels like roiling flame across my skin, a feeling like stretching, arching, straining sensuality. I want to jump him, my lips on his neck, and I cannot tell in which way I wish to ravage him. I feel on the edge of control. What has he done to me!?

"I shouldn't," I try to convince myself, "do..."

I am so close to losing it, when he saves us both. In nearly the same motions has he did last night, he takes up my hand and kisses it, thought there is not a table between us this time.

"Is this not okay?" he asks, sounding a little worried.

"It's..." I say, trying to refocus. "Not..."

I close my eyes, remember who I am and who he is and what I want.

"It is alright," I say, once again returned to myself. "Might I request you do not do anything faster or close to me without my permission?"

"Of course," he says, freely and without doubt or question. He looks as though he understands, but as his eyes drift and his body response, if only slightly, I get the impression that being good is going to be just as hard for both of us.

"See you after class," I say, since it is starting to run late.

"Yeah," he says, shaking his head. "See you then."

He, naturally, has trouble with his coordination, yet does not, in fact, trip over nothing but his own feet as he walks away. I watch him go, completely a peace with the world.

 _You got it so bad! Has he tried to feel you up yet? Because he will be in for a rocking- I mean shocking surprise!_

"Seriously, Em," I say in only half mocking protest.

She laughs and takes my are in much the same way Ben has been, starting to drag me to Spanish. She is using enough strength that if I don't resist her just right, I will be being dragged beyond reason.

 _I am serious,_ thinks Emily. _You need to get out of your head. It's okay! He isn't going anywhere!_

I sigh, "I suppose I could focus on something other than him for a while."

 _Can you?_ she thinks at me. _From right here, it looks like the only thing you are think about more than Ben is yourself._

I lower me head a moment, "I deserve that."

 _No,_ she thinks, _you deserve to have Rory go at your car again. You deserve to be smacked upside your head, as they say. What are you thinking? He knows! And you can't be sure he won't tell someone._

"He wouldn't," I protests, "and besides, Alice-"

 _Can't see everything!_ she thinks. _You are being with him in public now. What happens if he doesn't become one of us?_

I grimace, "I won't-"

But I might. I shake off the thought. I am not going to think about it. I am going to go to Spanish, take a break from Ben, and relax while I can. Now, if only I knew how to do that.

I am sitting in my desk, casting around for something to occupy my mind more than Spanish aught at a high school level ever could when something catches my attention.

And then, it dawns on me.

I search. It doesn't take long. Angelo is sitting in English, trying very hard to concentrate on his school work. He keeps dropping back to thinking about his little sisters, Lizzie and Janie, planning a beach trip this weekend and thinking about how much he is looking forward to spending the day with them. I am stunned. I think of all the time I have read his thoughts, and looking for something inclination towards wanting something, anything, having any sort of selfish desire, and I cannot find a one. How am I supposed to redress the kindnesses he has shown to Ben if I cannot find something that he wants or might like.

And then, with luck, I am appeased. He thinks about the dance. He is still wondering if he will go. The trip will last all day, and he isn't sure if it is worth going, especially since he still doesn't. He thinks over the girls he know who don't have dates, and I have it.

I glance over my shoulder. Brenda Cheney is just sitting down in a chair behind me. She is a relatively plain looking girl, with no makeup, secondhand clothing, a withdrawn demeanor. She is quiet and polite and gets good grades, with very little social life to speak of. She likes movies and comics, and feels alienated in general because so few girls at the school share her interests. Searching my memory, I learn that she was roped into the dance by Taylor and Mickie, and while she say that she would ask someone, I am pretty sure she has not.

I think quickly. I knew what I must do.

"Em," I say to fast and low for the humans around us. "I want to play a game."

 _Game?_ she thinks eagerly, then suspiciously. _What sort of game?_

I explain quickly and quietly.

 _But, why?_ she thinks, utterly confused.

"Do this," I say, "and I will help you cheat in your next chess game with Jasper."

 _Done!_

She turns in her seat, "Ben seriously isn't going to the dance?"

She is a little too loud, but she easily gets Brenda's attention.

"Yeah," I say dejectedly. "It's okay though. He won't mind if I go stag. Besides, there are plenty of boys going who don't have dates."

Emily laughed skeptically, "Yeah, like who?"

"Jared Ford," I mention.

"Oh, please," she laughs, "like he is your type!"

"Whitney?" I consider.

"I think he is going with Robin Sawyer," Emily says.

"Hmm," I muse, "what about Angelo?"

Brenda is listen. Intently. She might actually like him. This might be easier than I believed.

"Angelo," says Emily, as though considering him. "Yeah, I heard that he was hoping someone might ask him, but she never did."

"Her lose is my fabulous gain," I say a bit covetously. I am actually starting to feel a little guilty about this. I hope this doesn't get back to Ben. Oh well. It is worth it if I can pull it off. I will just explain, should it come up.

"Oh no," said Emily, "I heard she is still going though. Her friends are dragging her or some such."

Brenda let out a mild squeak. No one else appears to notice, but we both turn, improving perfectly. She looks almost terrified. We turn to look at each other, and laugh.

She bursts into tears and bolts from the room.

 _Well,_ thinks Emily. _That wasn't as expected._

"No," I said, it was perfect.

I concentrate really hard. Alice suddenly sees me, jumping up and down at home this evening, waving my hands in her face, trying to get her attention. She sighs.

 _You can just call me,_ she thinks. _I can hear you._

"What's the fun in that," I say. "Can you look into something for me? Angelo and Brenda."

She traces a few potential lines for me, as I make my own plans. I make the final decisions, and that is that. I grin and explain to Emily who grins to.

 _We may have to do this more often,_ she thinks. _This is fun!_

I sigh. She isn't wrong.

Brenda comes back halfway through class. She doesn't look happy and it is obvious she has been doing a lot of crying. Perfect. We look up at her, and give each other significant looks. She tries to ignore us. She almost starts crying again.

When the bell rings I am eager to get back to Ben. I just have on thing left to do.

"Do you know what class he has right now?" I ask Emily.

"English, I think," she says.

I gather up my books, and Brenda tries desperately to catch up. I am walking at a lazy pace, but she walks briskly past me. She is getting close to English when she trips. She crashes to the ground, unharmed but deeply embarrassed and tears running down her face.

It works. Only one person stops to help her.

"Are you okay?" asks Angelo, stooping down.

I don't need to see anymore. Alice is watching them have their first kiss at the dance. I miss Ben so much it hurts.

I find him in the mind closest to him. Oh, sigh.

"-you're dating Cullen now?"

 _That self-centered, plastic surgery ridden freak!_

"Yes," he says, sounding pleasant but unhappy.

"I don't like it," she says derisively. "Why would you want to date her, anyway?"

 _I bet she's like eighty percent silicone! I bet if you groped her, it would leave a hand print!_

"Mickie," say Ben, politely but firmly, "who I date is up to me. You're my friend, but I'm not going to justify myself to you. I am dating her because I want to, and for no other reason."

 _Oh please! Like she didn't just flutter her eyelashes and pout her duckfaced lips at you and you didn't come running, hoping for a little T and A._

I am starting to lose my temper as I get close to gym.

"I would have thought you had more going for you than to be swayed by a pretty plastic person," she says, her resentment so thick, I could strangle her with it. I think about doing just that.

But Ben surprises me. He takes a deep breath, and doesn't get angry or stoop to her level or anything. He is simply honest.

"That's nice," he says with just the perfect amount of minimal sarcasm. "I would have that there was more to you than to act maliciously towards someone I am dating simply because it isn't you."

He turns and walks away.

I wait for him to change, listing to Mickie the whole time. She is trying very hard not to admit that he is right, and her self reproach and recriminations give me just the best bit of vindictive pleasure I have gotten over her in a while. I could probably afford to go easy on her for a while. Maybe.

He appears, and I manage not to pounce on him in my delight. He offers his arm and I take it.

 _ARRGHHHHH! Where's Jesse!?_

"Thanks for that," I say, grinning.

"For?" he asks, nonplussed.

I cast my gaze as she walks off in search of her date for the dance.

"Mickie was seriously starting to... irritate me," I admit, but feel he deserves a compliment for his effort. "The way you handled it was very you. I find that I appreciate you more and more all the time."

I lean my head on his shoulder taking in his presence and enjoying having him with me. I notice that he seems a bit reserved, and judging his heart rate and his breathing, there is an undeniable reluctance about him. I look up at him and there is a subtle confliction upon his face.

"What is it?" I ask, loving that I can.

He pauses, then opens my door for me, saying nothing. I love that I no longer feel anxious by this silence. I can wait until he is ready to tell me. I actually enjoy that I care enough about him that I let him be, be himself in his own time. I need nothing from him but that which he is willing to give.

I get into the car and wait for him to enter. I begin driving as soon as he is in. Sitting and waiting would make him feel pressured.

"I don't know how to put this," he says at last, not looking at me. A part of me is worried, but as soon as I realize that it is because I am afraid that I won't like what he has to say, I laugh at myself and let go some more.

"I assure you," I say. "There is nothing you could say or do that would make me think less of you. Say what you want to say."

He is quite a moment, then says, "I'm not used to this."

He doesn't continue. I choose to interrupt this as an invitation.

"Being with someone?" I inquire, the likeliest answer that I can think of without diving deep and focusing.

He looks almost distressed, at last turning away from me completely, his eyes tight shut.

"Wanting you this badly," he all but mouths silently, still quite clear to me. "Wanting anyone this badly. It's like, as soon as I see you, I can't think of anything else. I've never had to deal with it before."

Something that one might call heat rushes through me. I am sure it is only relative warmth, but to another vampire, they could feel it, sense it. And, for the briefest of moments, the smallest perceivable instant that there is for my mind, I want him to be vampire, so that I don't have to be careful, to be gentle, to wait, to risk, so that he can touch me and feel me and know me beyond that human senses and capacities are limited by. I want him, all of him, and to have him know all of me. And then, I remember what is right and fair and safe, and I let it go.

I consider his words themselves, not as they pertain to me. This is a subject we have not really discussed anywhere in depth. Perhaps now is as good a time as any. Let us begin with history.

"You've never wanted anyone before?" I ask, the internal joy of learning more of him in my voice.

"Not really," he says, more reflecting than dismissing. "I've fantasized about a girl or two, had some celebrity crushes, but I've never been with someone I might actually do something physical with. It is hard to do anything, but want you."

This is something I can understand, from both ends. I am sure, had I not the extra capacity for thought and function that I do, being with Ben would be so overwhelming, especially when wanting him. But also, I have watched the minds of human males so often, I could easy right a number of insightful thesis papers on the intricacies of the adolescent mind. As it is, I understand what is going on with Ben, but if I have learned anything from Alice as of late, it is that people won't know things until they are ready. Ben won't be able to hear anything I have to say until he trust me more than he trusts his own thoughts and feelings and impressions. I will never force that upon him, so how to tell him without requiring him to trust me?

I pulled up in front of his house before I had my answer.

"Do you think anything has changed since we started dating?" I say, turning to face him.

"Sure," he says, with just the barest hint of flatness to his tone. "We're talking differently to each other, we're acting differently."

I can tell that he isn't really communicating with me. He is just saying words, telling me what he thinks I want to hear. He isn't really engaging. He is afraid, even if he doesn't realize it himself.

"Do you think we would be behaving the same way if we weren't dating?" I ask, trying to go a little deeper, trying to see if I can get him to realize what he is doing.

"Yes," he says, "I would be trying... or thinking about trying to..."

His voice wonders off. He is starting to realize, starting to see his own fear.

"I didn't say what you were thinking about doing," I say gently. "I mean actually doing."

He considers my words, relaxing. He is feeling safer, considering, looking, feeling, understanding.

"No," he say upon reflecting. "I guess things wouldn't be different."

It is true, I have never grasped a man's arm the way I have Ben's. I have never pressed my lips to anyone who wasn't a member of my family before him either. I would like to say that nothing has changed, but I get the feeling that is has. However, what that means is only limited to what we think it means. What does he want this change to mean? Or, perhaps more importantly, what does he think he wants it to mean?

"Do you want to have sex with me?" I ask. In the moment, I am suddenly very interested in what his reaction will be. Not just because I want to know, but because, knowing Ben as I do, there is a greater than average chance it will be hilarious.

He builds in his seat, for a fraction of an instant seeming as though he is about to inhale for a bellow. But then evens out, levels off, and to my awe, thinks about the question.

"I-," he says, still considering, "don't know."

My boy. My beautiful Ben. Even I cannot fathom the depth to which he will still impress me. Inspired by him, I think about the question myself.

"I don't know either," I say. "It is important, and dangerous, especially for us. It isn't something I think we should do impulsively."

He exhales, relaxing further.

"Yeah," he agrees, as though continuing my thought in his own mine. "If we do, I don't want our first time to be because I got all testosterone laden. I want it to be a choice, not a lack of one."

I smile, nodding, continuing the thought myself.

"A choice we make together," I agree in turn.

He nods too.

But, alas, curiosity gets the better of me.

"What are your opinions about sex?" I have to ask, feeling a little shy all of a sudden. I think about having this conversation when I was human, and realize it never would have happened. As far as society still has to go to escape its truly barbaric nature, it has made some staggering advancements in some avenues, for those willing to take them up.

He lets out a snort of amusement.

"My dad was a big believer in the idea that male sexuality was responsible for a majority of the most scandalous crimes against women," he remarks. "I was brought up to believe that a girl's body is tantamount to being sacred, and that when it comes to sex, her word is final."

I take in this information, taking it apart, finding all the implications therein, and am not pleased, at all.

"That doesn't sound very healthy," she can't help but criticize.

"Huh?" he asks, perplexed. "Why?"

I do not want to be his superior in anything. He is better than me in every way that burdened upon me by what I am. And yet, I like feeling on even footing with him, the way he makes me feel. I wouldn't want him to turn around and cave to me in anything, simply because of my gender. It is a lie and one that he would willing place upon himself? It is just wrong.

"A couple should be equals, in all things," I say. "If her say is final, then it is impossible for there to be balance, ever. You will always fall second to her."

"Are you suggesting that I deny her the right to say no?" he asks incredulously.

I shake my head, equally incredulous. Ben, as exceptional as he is, doesn't understand. He believes the same pitfall that so many young men have fallen into before him.

"I'm suggesting that what you want is just as important," I correct. "She can say no to you. But you can say no too. The way you described it, you made it sound like you would be asking yes all the time, and when she agreed, you would have sex. At what point do you not want sex?"

The last thing I was expecting was for him to smile.

"I do sleep," he says.

The at odds comment that is so unlike him, coupled with the fact that I have probably spent more continuous time watching him sleep than anyone ever, has bursting out in a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

"You don't say..." I finally get out.

"But I get what you're saying," he says, grinning at me in turn.

I subside, nodding.

"It is pretty common for high school boys these days to lie about their conquests," I inform him. "Many think it is ego, trying to make them seem more impressive than they really are, but you would be surprised how often it is because they feel that they have no other choice. The term peer pressure doesn't really cover it. A lot of boys have forced themselves to believe they want sex all the time or that any opportunity for sex should taken so they feel normal and acceptable."

I think about it hard, harder than I have in a long time. I start to see it in a new way. Since I have known Ben, I have see entire aspects of selfishness in myself that I never even knew about. With that come to light, it is easy to understand that other might be just as imperfect as I am.

"Before I became interested in you," I confess, "I would have said that it was stupid and trite, but now, I feel more inclined to be forgiving. It's the best decision they know how to make, even if it won't make them happy. But, whether they realize it or not, they have a choice."

He looks at me, but something passes over his face, something I don't fulling understand at first. He looks at my lips a moment, then into my eyes. He isn't looking for anything, he is just looking, as something in unfolding within his mind. I am not sure what it could possible me.

"I trust you," he says, so simply, nodding. "I do have a choice. Thank you."

I want to cry. The feeling in me wells up, so full and undeniable. How could this be? How can I even be good enough to deserve him. He does trust me! I can see it now! He is willing to hear me and see me and know me and care for me and trust me! I don't know how! He is doing even what I know not how to do!

But... wait. I have been doing it. I have been. I think of the time with Alice, with Jasper, with Emily. I have been trusting more, learning how to more, been more loving with my family since I met Ben, since I learned that I love him, than I ever had before. He was doing it to. We were doing it together. But had my how family. I had the support of Alice, and my parents, creatures of true goodness if ever there were any among our kind. He was doing this inherently, upon his own. He was, is loving me. Now, I want to cry again, in an entirely different way for an entirely different reason.

"You've got it backwards," I say. "I can't imagine ever doing anything that would make me deserving of someone like you."

I just look into his eyes. He looks back, but before long, he becomes shy or overwhelmed and looks away, but always returns to me quickly. I do to, every once in a while, just to help him feel less self-conscious.

At last, I think to him and his concerns, "If I had to guess, you would prefer that I be gone before your mother gets home."

He resettles himself in the seat.

"Um, yeah, actually," says, though he looks distressed. Before I can ask, he follows up with, "But..."

He looks tenderly torn.

"But?" I ask, unable to hold back.

"I don't want you to go," He says.

I beam at him, feeling that old shyness that reminds me of being a human girl.

I consider.

"We still have some time," I assure him. "What should we do until then?"

He thinks a moment.

"What do you like?" he asks

I say the first thing I think of.

"You," I say, teasing him. God, that I love him so!

"No," he laughs, "I mean, what do you do? What do you enjoy? What are your pastimes?"

I weigh his words. I am not ready to confess my current favor pastime. No nighttime activity compares with watching him sleep. Perhaps Saturday I will inform him of such. I wonder what his reaction will be. I form my list and speak.

"Many things," I say. "I enjoy music quite a bit, and books. Of my family, of which I have been a vampire longest other than my mother and brother Jasper, I have read the most books, accrued the most skills, can speak the most languages. I enjoy playing competitively with my siblings, but they mostly won't play with me."

"Why?" he asks, again seeing me as a girl.

I smile and indicate my forehead

"Oh," he says, as though half berating himself. "Right."

"I enjoy driving and speed," I continue on, "and though I've never piloted a plane, I'm sure that I would enjoy that as well."

Something creeps into his expression, an inquisitive look, but there is a reluctance there, and he doesn't ask. It is too much for me.

"What?" I ask.

He looks so entirely nervous, as though about to utter something untoward.

"Um," he stammers, trying to be polite, "may I ask how old you are?"

I try very hard, and fail miserably, not to laugh. The very idea that such a thing might offend me, that I might care about my age like some mortal girl. He is so sweet.

"You are adorable," I say, still giggling but getting my emotions back under wraps. Then, something I hadn't considered occurs to me. This is yet another way that shows that I am not human.

"I wonder if it will bother you," I admit.

"Why?" he asks, looking over at me, half sideways.

"I am not human," I say, keeping the smile on my face, but I don't feel it nearly so much anymore. "You need so much reminding of that, so often. I am wondering how you will start treating me when it finally sinks in."

He thinks upon my words.

"Why do you seem so sure that it will change?" he asks.

What a strange question! It is my turn to consider his words. As I think on it, I realize that I do expect him to change. He is human after all. Humans change, it is what they do. How could he have possible picked up on that.

"I'm never going to get over how observant you are," I smile. "We don't change like humans do. For many of us, we don't change at all from the time of our conversion. When we become vampire, we are locked into who we are when the change takes us. Our new minds do not alter as humans do. Memories fade for you, you heal, you shift, you grow, you age. We do none of these things. Constants for us are constants. Change for you is your only constant."

"How do you become a vampire?" he asks.

NO!

How could I have been so careless!? I was too caught up in him, so enraptured by his questions and his ability of be observant that I was woefully unobservant myself! And he managed to cut right to the only question I daren't answer him!

I look away from him, and say as evenly as I can, "I'm not telling you that."

"Whoa," he says, startled even so. "What? What did I say?"

I want to rant and rave and scream at him. I won't take his humanity from him, I won't turn him!

"You aren't-," I start, but I manage to catch myself. Breath. He is here. He is human. I have done nothing wrong, other than what I am about to do. He was just being himself and is unaware. He does not deserve my anger or my worry.

"I'm sorry," I say politely, yet honestly, "but that is not something I'm willing to discuss."

He looks unhappy, a bit worried.

"Can I ask why?" he inquires.

"No," I rely, smiling as I shake my head, trying to soften my reaction. "I can't tell you for the same reason I won't talk about it. You can ask all you want, but I'm not going to say any more on the subject."

He doesn't look happy about it, but he relents.

"I should get dinner started," he says, an aside to excuse himself, I think, but he immediately follows up with, "Do you want to stay for a bit?"

I wish that I could, but his mother should be home soon.

"No," I say, "I better go."

"I'm sorry," he says piteously, lowering his eyes. I feel completely retched.

"No," I say insistently. "No. I'm sorry. You... you just have no idea of captivating you are."

His eyes find mine again, confused.

"Huh?" he asks.

"You capture so much of my attention," I explain. "There are times when it's hard to focus around you, which isn't very safe because you inspire some pretty strong reactions from me at times."

I do not know what I say it in this way, what exactly I am trying to confess to him, but naturally, he gets it before I even do.

"Saturday," he says, flooring me that he is right. "It's going to be dangerous for us, isn't it? I mean, the way you looked at me that first day in Biology, all your warnings, and talking about risk to me. One of those possibilities, one of the two you mentioned, is me, dead."

I thought all my secrets were bared, save for the possibility of him becoming one of us. Now, I realize that I might have more. This one, one I didn't even know I was afraid to tell him, burns in me. He knows that he might die at my hand. Is he going to run? Should I run? God, what if I _do_ kill him!? What would that do to me now, now that I know that I am not done falling for him, that I could actually be happy with him?

Suddenly, utterly recklessly, he flings himself at me. I am caught completely unaware, having his soft, warm vulnerable self quickly pressed against me. I try not to move, fear that some instinct might come about that will destroy him here and now and me along with him.

But it doesn't come. I let myself move again, reaching my arms carefully around him, hope not to harm him. He is so warm and vital and smells amazing and so thick it burns my entire face with the venom that washes down my throat. I can smell every bit of him, down to the aroma of teenage boy that make me weaker in the knee than I already am. I hold him in my arms, feeling his heart beat through our clothing. I feel myself start to fray, to dissolve around the edges, and feel him as though we are a part of each other. He feels so good and smells so good, and I want him, forever, and absolute want to kill him almost as badly.

The slightest and tiniest of moans escape me, embodying every emotion that such a sound can. He begins to withdrawal, and I want very much to never let him go again.

He looks directly into my face and say, effortlessly, "I trust you."

Why must I want to kill him.

"But what if I...," I try to say, but my words are choked by the pain of my venom.

"I trust you," he says decisively.

He presses his hand to my cheek. It feels like fluttering flame, warm and delightful and dangerous. Without another word, he takes his bag, and leaves the car, going inside without a look back.


	10. Chapter 10: Conflictions

I knew what is coming. I park the Mercedes and walk into the house. The whole family is waiting there, in the dinning room, nearly as before. This time, Jasper sits with Alice, though looks no more happy than before.

I scan over their thoughts. Katherine and Emanuel are of the mind that we need a discussion to resolve the conflict between Rory and myself. Emily is stalwartly at his side but has no true convictions here. Jasper is sampling moods and considering how this will go. Alice is, of course, comparing the products of European shoe designers and considering whom to invest in.

"Ben knows," accuses Rory as soon as I enter the room. "Now, let's suppose how that happened..."

"Simple," I say unrepentant, "Someone on the Quileute reservation told him."

Everyone but Alice comes up short.

"What?" asks Emanuel. "Who?"

I shrug, "I didn't think to ask."

Rory stood up, "You didn't think it was important to inquire into who might be spreading rumors about the Cullens being _vampires_?!"

"No," I say, no defensiveness or anger in my voice, "In Ben's own words, 'She just thought she was telling me some old story. She was explaining why you didn't visit her land, that's all.' Who even this person was, she was asked a specific question and answered. We cannot undo what was done. What more is there?"

"We cannot take this so lightly," Jasper says.

I shake my head, "Are you suggesting we break the treaty to investigate?"

"The treaty is broken," points out Katherine. "We must know that this breach will not continue."

"The wolves are dead," says Emily. "Let's just go talk to them."

"We will do not such thing," says Emanuel. "We will not discredit ourselves simply to even the score."

"We could arrange a meeting," said Jasper, "or simply call one of the existing elders."

"But will they speak to us?" asks Emanuel.

"We can't know until we try," says Alice. "Or, decide to, anyway."

I laugh. They look at me as though confused.

"What?" I say in mock defense. "I enjoy Alice's humor."

She beams at me.

"You shouldn't be so blasé about this!" Rory insists.

I sit straighter, "I am not your daughter, nor will I hold myself to your standard above my own."

Rory looks as though he is about to go on a tirade when Katherine gives him a half pleading, half conciliatory look. He sits back, willing to be quiet.

"You must work to contain this as much as any of us," says Katherine to me. "I will do my part, as must we all. Ben, I think we can all agree, is no risk."

We all look at Alice.

"From what I can tell," she says, "Ben is not easily influenced. Things that do change him can have a great deal of effect, but once those changes or decisions are made, he doesn't deviate. I doubt he will tell anyone anything, even if we leave tomorrow."

I try very hard not to let to show just how much the very idea hurts me. Jasper glances my way, and I relax and give him a thankful glance.

"Find out who this person is who told him," suggests Emanuel, as only he can suggest.

"I will," I assure them. "I will discuss it with Ben tomorrow."

"Or," says Alice. "You could just do as you planning and go see him now."

"What?" I ask.

Alice looks again, and laughs, "Yes. That actually resolves the situation nicely."

They all look at me.

 _Come on!_ she thinks. _Come girl out with me! I need to tell you about tomorrow anyway._

"Okay," I say standing. Alice stands too, knowing the next part. They all wear their expressions when they know something has passed between us that they didn't catch or understand, and we run together to the land behind the house, dancing together momentarily, exuberantly embracing each other and laughing at the joy that is my life.

"I am so happy for you," she says.

"What about tomorrow?" I ask.

She grins, "I am talking you hunting!"

We haven't ever been on a hunting trip, just the two of us. It was either all the girls, or Jasper or one of the parents went with us, or some other uncommon variant.

"Really?" I ask.

She nods, "But, we are leaving at lunchtime tomorrow."

"NO!" I sound so loudly that just about every creature that readily can vacates the area for a half mile all around us.

"Trust me," she says simply.

I sigh, "This better be worth it."

She nods, "Oh, it will be."

I kiss her cheek, "You are my dearest sister."

"Hey," says Emily, only hurt a little.

"I didn't say the best sister," I say.

"Oh good," laughs Emily.

She and I embrace on last time and I turn, about to go when I look back.

"If I kill Ben," I ask, "what will happen to me?"

She shakes her head, "I can't see that until it happens. But, I am sure, that it is likely what you think will happen."

I will die. It doesn't matter how long it takes, I will figure out a way. The Volturi would be my best bet. But that is not something I need to think about now. For now, I need to set things right with my family and see Ben.

I arrive in the woods outside Ben's home. He is inside with his mother.

"You've been all distant since Sunday," she is saying. "But you're not far away anymore; you're back."

There is the clattering of plates and she is thinking of relief and that mental hue she had before, when she realized that I existed.

"I'm looking forward to the weekend," Ben says, and I am sure she, like me, is aware Ben is trying to hide how much he is looking forward to it.

"Did she ask you?" his mother asks.

There is a pause.

"Did who ask me what?" Ben asks confusedly. I am not sure how genuine it is.

She knows exactly what is going on. She thinks I asked him to the dance? This is just laughable.

"Nothing," she says, backtracking. "No, nothing. Never mind."

She doesn't want to interfere with Ben. I am not sure how much he appreciates that.

"Mom!" he complains. I congratulate myself on how well I am getting to know Ben.

"So," his mother says over the shifting of chairs, "still planning on going to Seattle?"

I think I understand where Ben gets his insightfulness from.

There is a very noticeable pause. What is Ben up to? Is he not going to tell his mother about me yet?

"That was the plan," he says quickly.

He's lying? Well, no actually. It _was_ the plan. Why is he being misleading?

"What are you going to do?" she asks.

"Not entirely sure," he says. "I was going to play it by ear, see what there is to see and do what there is to do. I've never been there before, so I don't know what there is to even do. It's been a while since I could get out of the house and just do whatever."

I understand enough of her mind to know that Ben's mother is not fooled in the slightest. She is practically screaming girlfriend on repeat in her thoughts.

That is when the car pulls up.

It is an old maroon 92 Toyota Corolla, with two women inside. It is beyond a doubt that they are from the reservation. The one driving is the younger of the two, mid-teens, long black hair, slender, her face with a stark, rather striking symmetry, cast in a somewhat contained excitement. The older is likely her mother, her face warn, with just a touch of gray at her temples. The older is thinking her friend, Carrie, wondering what she has been up to since they last spoke. I get the impression that there was a fight that happened between them. The child, on the other hand...

 _I can't wait to see Ben! Jeez, after I mentioned that old legend, he hardly said two words to me. I hope I didn't scare him off. I knew I shouldn't have mentioned it. Mom would kill me if she finds out. I hope I can find some way to make sure he doesn't say anything to anyone. I hope he's happy to see me!_

"And you're not going to the dance?" Carrie asks again.

A wave of jealousy plumes within me, and I have to take a moment to fight it down.

"I don't dance!" Ben proclaims loudly.

"Okay," sounding like she is trying not to laugh or yell. "I hear you."

She gets out of the car first, and I wonder if she is old enough to legally drive. Her mother stays in the car, and while I am considering the reason why, the younger gets a well-used wheelchair out of the back seat. She helps her mother into it with a practiced hand and more strength than I would have expected for her thin frame. She is settling her mother in when the mother's head whips around and she sniffs the air. This strikes me as odd until the single word slams into her mind.

 _Vampire!_

I am not sure if she is speaking to me directly, for there is no way that anyone outside of my family, including the cousins, or Ben, could know about my gift. She doesn't go on, and I assume that she must have somehow smelt me.

"Mom?" asks the child. "Mom, what is it?"

She shakes her head, "It's nothing. Just thought I smelt something foul. Doesn't matter. I never had the nose your great grandmother had. She could sniff out a flock of geese flying south."

"Sure she could, Mom," says the child.

I see the mother's thoughts. A very early memory, warped by time, but clear enough. A stooped old woman, blurring into the massive, unmistakable form of a russet wolf, the wolf that had been Ezra Black.

So, these are the Blacks then. If I interpreted their customs correctly, that means that this is not only one of the Elders of the tribe, but is the Matriarch of her entire people. The child must be her daughter and future leader to her people. This is who broke the treaty? It is so ironic as to be laughable!

Ben's mother is starting to speak as they get to the door and knock. I hear what can only be Ben, racing to the door, flinging what sounds like silverware in his haste. He throws open the door, and I see his face fall, turning to surprise that covers his disappointment. The child doesn't seem to notice his disappointment.

"Hey Ben," she says flirtatiously, and I need to take a moment keep myself from launching into a lengthy string of fantasies of what I might do to this girl if she tried to touch Ben.

"Hey, Joc- Josie," he says.

"You remembered," she says, her voice and mind betraying just how much this little thing means to her. She is so easily pleased!

"Hey Lin," Carrie says at Ben's elbow, addressing the Elder Black. "Right on time."

"With a game tonight," Lin replies in kind, a sort of put on enthusiasm. "You know it!"

It is just a moment, a slip, but I catch it. This is about me. Lin, apparently, keeps tabs on us through school. She is friendly with a few of the parents who's children go to Fork's High. From the brief understanding I had, she hasn't told Carrie anything about us, but she is here with her daughter, who is clear admiring of Ben, in the hopes of trying to separate us.

"Decided to tag along, Jos?" Carrie asks.

"Yep," Lin says meaningfully. "Apparently she's developed a sudden interest in... sports."

Apparently, even if she isn't fully in one the plan, Carrie is interested in attempting to pair their children. I am not sure why she is trying to destroy me, but for now, I will assume it isn't intentional.

Ben is oblivious to all of this. They believe it is funny. I am trying not to lose my temper.

"Well," Carrie says, "come on in! You can't see the game from out there."

They trundle their way inside.

"We've got snack food," Carrie continues. "Unfortunately we didn't make enough dinner. Ben didn't know you were coming."

"You cook?" asks Jose. _Wow, that's so grown up!_

I try to keep calm and fail. Why is this getting to me so!?

"I can follow a recipe," he says bashfully. I see the two of them within Lin's mind. They look at odds, but in her eyes, they seem to fit somehow. I can tell that she isn't doing this for any outright malicious purposes. She is afraid for the son of her friend. I forgive her. The anger and jealousy I was feeling a moment ago is suddenly displaced by worry. They do look good together.

"I'm going to eat in the living room," say Carrie. "Why don't you two hang out in the kitchen?"

They are giving them space? To do what?! The jealousy returns and the worry redoubles.

"Okay," says Josie. I move around the house, finding an angle that I can see them from. She is sitting on the counter as he takes a seat at the table.

 _I keep forgetting how cute he is!_ she thinks. _He seemed so grown up when I knew him as a kid, but now, he is just so cute! He's nothing like the boys at school. Say something! Be polite! Don't let him know that you're interested, not yet..._

"How've you been?" she asks him.

He chews and swallows.

"Can't complain," he says, indicating the living room. "Except for them. What was that about?"

"I think they think we might be all self-conscious if they hang around us kids," she says. _I am just glad I get to be alone with him._

He snorts, "Speak for yourself."

There is a flash of old ache, her feeling rejected by him because he didn't want to get lumped together with her in their childhood games. It brings out a challenge in her rather than any sort of victimhood.

"What?" she barks back. "Please! As though you expect me to believe you're older than me!"

"I am older than you," he says, nonplussed.

"Sure, sure," she banters, "but we all know girls mature way faster than boys."

Ben follows suit, naturally.

"You seem surprised I can cook," he states in similar tones. "How mature can you be?"

"Mature enough to understand our moms' subtext," she maneuvers, "which you obviously can't."

"I can drive," he parries.

"I can too," she ripostes.

"Legally?" he inquires, knowing that he has scored a point.

"Can you fix a car?" she rebuts.

"I can change a tire," he counters.

"I'm putting an old Rabbit back together," she bolsters. "With a little luck, it will be up and running before I get my license."

"Can you balance a checkbook?" I volleys.

She becomes flustered.

 _Think of something good! Think of something good!_

"Assist someone who's disabled?" she vies.

"That's in poor taste," says Ben, but doesn't sound all that critical. "Plus, extenuating circumstances. If I was in your position, I would know that too."

"First aid?" she presses. "CPR?"

"That's cheating," he complains. "Speak a second language?"

"Better than you can, white boy," she says in her native language.

"I can also," he says in passable Spanish.

"Do the grocery shopping?" she fights back.

"Yes," he affirms. "Clean the house?"

"Yes," she answers, reservedly.

"Regularly, and well?" he pits.

 _Come on! Don't take that sitting down. You can trounce him! Come on! Show him you aren't that little girl anymore!_

"Do you know your family lineage?" she interjects.

"What does that have to do with being grown up?" he asks, baffled.

"Do you?" she insists.

There is a slight pause.

"Do you have a college fund?" he asks, a note of triumph in his voice.

Instantly, his question fills her with chagrin.

 _I don't have any money. All I had went into the stupid car that doesn't even run yet. Even if it didn't, it is exactly like I can pay for even community college. What am I even doing here? It isn't like a boy like Ben is really ever going to be interested in me. Why would he-_

"It doesn't matter how much you have in it," Ben says suddenly, every last little bit of competition gone out of his voice. "I would have been completely cleared it out if mom hadn't gotten me the truck. The important part of the question is having one."

How very decent of him.

"No," she said, reluctant in her head but not in her speech.

"We both still have time," Ben says politely, then jokingly. "It isn't like we're going to college tomorrow."

 _He really is just a great guy. Why is it so hard to meet a decent guy? Okay, I met him, really, but why can't I just ask him out already!?_

I manage to stop myself before I get to the door and knock. I wouldn't be doing him any favors, but I want so very desperately to stop this.

"Is that good?" she asks. I can hear Ben eating and return to my spot where I can see them.

"Not my best," he says humbly, "but it's good. Do you cook?"

She thinks of a particularly burnt piece of what might have once been fish.

"Yeah no," she says sarcastically. "Not really. I mean, I can put a meal on the table, but most of the recipes I follow I'm getting off the back of the box."

"Yeah," he says, a smile clear in his words as well as on his face, "I can see that."

She becomes indignant, though I cannot tell just how seriously from her tone, mind or literal.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks severely.

He isn't at all swayed by her response. He goes so far as to laugh.

"You're such a delicate flower!" he pokes fun at her. "Can I borrow your frilly apron and your flowery ironing board when you're done with them?"

She laughs as well, pleasantly and without recriminations.

"Yeah," she admits, "I see your point."

She considers.

 _Look, if you are going to ask him, just ask him! Start with a nice icebreaker. Ask him about girls. It will be a nice segue!_

I am pacing in the woods so quickly that I am disturbing animal life.

"What sort of girls do you like?" she asks.

I am about to call Ben, but I realize that I still don't have his number. Or rather he hasn't given it to me. How could I explain?! ARGH!

"I..." Ben stammers. "What?"

"Girls," she says, drawing out the word, gaining confidence through her jesting. "You do like them, yes?"

"Yeah," he finally manages to get out. "Yes, yep, uh huh. I'm pro girl."

This actually makes me laugh for some reason. I keep it quiet but am soon back to being frustrated.

"What sorts of girls do you like?" she repeats her inquiry.

Suddenly, I quit being frustrated and stand still. Here I am, with another chance to know more about Ben, and I am fretting it away!?

"I'm not sure, honestly," he says frankly. "There really hasn't been many that I've really liked, and the few I have I wasn't hugely interested in and they couldn't exactly be lumped into a group, other than girl."

Interesting. Why is he being more detailed with his responses with her? I suppose because she asked. Why didn't I? This seems rather important in retrospect.

 _Okay,_ she thinks, _ask, but don't make it sound like you think he's racist or something. Maybe he has a non-white girl fetish- did I really just think that!?_

"All white?" she asks, playing her misgivings off very well.

"No," he says, but doesn't continue. Now she doesn't ask?!

 _I so hope this doesn't come off as creepy!_

"But you aren't going to the dance with any of the girls who asked you?" she asks.

Oh no! I am suddenly completely unworried and amused. I keep my hand over my face.

"How do you know about that?!" Ben cries. His voice shoots through two octaves, again. I am rolling, on the ground.

"Girls talk to their moms," she informs him, patronizingly. I am too busy to be annoyed on his behalf.

"They especially talk when they get shot down by boys," she continues in similar tones. "Moms talk to other moms. Things get talked about and heard of."

"I'm never going to escape this stupid dance," he intones miserably.

"What's the big deal?" she dismisses. "It's just a dance."

"It's not just a dance," I say with undisguised venom. "It's a plague. It's a pox upon my life, always catching, never cured, inescapable and festering. People in our fiftieth class reunion will be asking me about this dance."

 _What is the big deal?_

"Why aren't you going?" she asks.

"I can't dance," I admit.

 _Is that it?_

"And?" she asks sarcastically. "No one else who goes can either."

 _That can't be it. What is it really?_

Is she seeing something I can't? Is she understand something I don't?

"I don't want to go because..." Ben says, then stops. He is considering his words. There is something here! How could I have not thought to look!?

"I always thought," he says shyly, "I'd go to the dance with my girlfriend and we slow dance and it would be amazing."

The thought comes to life in my mind. Us, together, dancing under the streamers, no one else but him in focus. It feels incredible. I am suddenly fabricating plans to take him to prom. Just one dance. He can't fault me for just one dance, can he?

"But I can't dance," he says, as though it is the real reason.

 _Ask him!_

"You don't have a girlfriend?" she asks.

I want to scream yes before I realize that we never specified. It is not something I had thought to flesh out, but now that I think upon it, I realize that it is my own fault and that I must live with whatever he states.

"I don't have a girlfriend," Ben says.

I feel somewhat dejected, but only through my own stupidity and I bare no ill will toward him. I am starting to have to actively not dislike the child though.

"But you're dating someone?" she asks.

In her mind is a snippet of conversation, Carrie saying that she is pretty sure Ben is dating someone or is at least interested in someone, but they haven't been seen together that she knows off.

Ben is less than coherent with his vocalizations than he was when she mentioned the dance.

"I'll take that as a yes," she says sounding defeated. I am just a tad smug.

"How did-," Ben says, looking towards the living room. Why is it so important that his mother not know?

"Who is it?" she asks conspiratorially.

"Edwina Cullen," he whispers.

Neither parent overhears.

 _OH MY GOD! That is too funny! No wonder mom mentioned this. I bet she wants me to go out with Ben to keep him away from her! If only. If she's half as attractive as I have heard, I might as well go home now._

I wish she would!

"Well," she laughs quietly, "that explains why my mom has been so anxious."

"Why?" he asks, sounding worried.

"No one from the reservation was going to the hospital," she says. "When your mom found out and ask why my mom said that it was because of Dr. Cullen. They had the worst fight I've ever seen them have and didn't speak for months. This is the first time I've seen them be this friendly again since then."

That explains the fight. That as more than four months ago, by my estimate.

"Is she going to tell my mom?" he asks, sounding unhappy.

"I doubt it," she replies. "Neither of them want to fight like that again."

"Okay," he says, relieved.

"Why don't you want your mom to know?" she asks.

I am torn between being disgusted with her and finding her very useful.

"Mom has been interfering with my dating life since before I had a dating life," he says.

I have seen firsthand evidence of this, but somehow, I think that there is more to it then this.

"Interfering how?" she inquires.

"She... uh..." he says, sounding put out. "She asked me about it."

There is a moment of silence. He can't be expecting her to fall for that, can he?

"She asked you about it?" she asks, clearly not.

"More than... once," he says, he voice drifting off.

"Man," she says with flat sarcasm. "That must of been rough. Right up the with Chinese water torture."

"Oh shut up!" he says seriously, though she smiles in return. I grit my teeth. Ben's heart rate hiccups. I grit my teeth harder.

 _Just ask him!_

My jaw creaks audibly.

"So what if I took you to the dance?" she asks, obviously still shy.

"Why?" he asks, sounding rather baffled.

 _Yeah,_ she thinks, _why would he ever want to go with me? No! Don't think like that! That wasn't a no! Just talk to him._

Before she can reply, he continues, sounding a bit uncomfortable, "I mean, it doesn't seem like your kind of thing. You don't even go to my school."

 _That's fair. But... wait..._

"What do you mean," she asks, sounding as though she isn't sure where to be defensive or not, "'not my kinda thing'?"

Ben looks at her. It is hard to tell from his expression what he is thinking, but it is nothing at all like the way he looks at me. I am torn between feeling relieved, smug, and sorry for the child.

 _He's looking at me,_ she thinks, almost frantic. _Why is he just looking at me? What is he thinking? Do I want to know what he is thinking?!_

Utter lunacy! How could she ever not want to know what he is thinking?!

Then, something about his face changes. It becomes pleasant, almost, dare I acknowledge it, fond.

She seems to swell, her thoughts taking on a warm, almost ringing quality in her contentment. It reminds me of how I feel when he smiles at me. She actually cares about him?!

Then he actually does smile at her. Her heart rate peaks.

"I just can't see you wearing a dress," he says happily, with just a touch of teasing to his tone. "I'd keep confusing you with an umbrella."

 _WHAT?! A WHAT!?I...! I! Oh damn it... that was funny! AH!_

She laughs, unable to hold on to her expression of outrage.

"You ass," she says, still smiling. "People development at different rates. If you saw my mom at my age, she was the same way, but as soon as she hit sixteen, she became a knock out. Just give me six months or so, and I bet you fifty bucks I'd wipe that smirk off your face."

She recalls an old picture she saw of her mother. She is right; even thought she has not retained the same structure to her face as her mother, if she is proportionally similar in the body, she will be very attractive by human standards. This makes me feel decidedly taciturn.

"That won't help you much," Ben says, smiling again. "The dance is in two days."

 _What's that supposed to mean?_ she thinks, giving him an almost critical look, her head tilted to one side.

"Are you saying you wouldn't take me to the dance because I'm not curvy enough for you?" she asks.

Of course he isn't! She doesn't know him at all!

"No," he says, but I do detect the defensive and almost dismissive tone to his words. "I'm saying your point is moot. You couldn't prove it in time for the excuse for you to wear an actually dress, so there!"

Apparently, so does she.

"You're being really sexist," calls him out.

And then, something changes. He seems to take her words serious, and where as I was thinking it was likely that he would become offended, instead, he looks at her directly and earnestly, and we both feel a quiver shutter through us at his look, me seeing it through her eyes.

"Josie," he says, so very kindly. "It doesn't matter to me. You could be drop dead gorgeous or plain Jane or forty pounds over weight or anorexic."

The smile is lovely, and his teasing tone returned as he said, just as seriously, "I'm still not going to the dance with you."

Her offense is hilarious to me, and I have to stifle my unexpected laughter, which scatters a few nighttime birds in nearby trees before I can stop it. I am completely silenced when she throws a dish towel at him that causes his chair to topple and him to crash to the ground. I am so close to the window that I might be visible, trying to make sure he is alright.

 _What did you do! Oh jeez! Oh jeez! Ugh! I hope he's okay! Perfect, Jos! You know what will really impress him!? Hit him with a car next time. Brilliant!_

"That was loud," he says, getting up and playing it off. His mother comes in to check on him and he puts the chair upright and begins clearing the table. She returns to the living room with her friend, and Josie hovers as Ben puts dinner away and cleans up.

"I'm so sorry," she says, sounding truly repentant.

"I'm fine," Ben says, trying to hide his embarrassment, "it's fine. Really."

I have to scale a tree to see through the kitchen window. It is further back from the house than I would like. As I am watching, Ben walks over to her. Her heart starts racing again as he comes close, and with an ease that is nearly heartbreaking to me, reaches up and pushes her hair out of her face.

This is unbearable! I want to be her! I want it to be that easy between us! I want to have him and hold him and be with him, without wondering if this is the time I will kill him. I am disgustingly jealous of the child.

"Why did you do that?" she asks, a quaver in her voice.

"I couldn't see your face," he says simply.

That is all, I try to convince myself. There is nothing there. They are barely even friends! They are standing remarkably close though... She blushes and lowers her eyes.

 _Ask him!Askhimaskhimaskhim!_

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the dance with me?" she asks.

He looks as though he is thinking about it.

Even though I do not need to, it feels as though some old memory of fear is being triggered and I feel as though I need to breath, but cannot get the satisfaction of getting air, no matter how hard I try. I need his scent in my lungs, the burning reassurance to know that I haven't lost him. I might lose him! After all, Alice is only as sure as we are of our path. What if he changes is mind? What if he makes another choice?

"I can't," he says, simply, decidedly. "I'm dating Edwina."

The relief I feel is heady, almost powerful enough to be considered an altered state.

"And?" asks Josie, sounding a bit chiding. "You said it yourself; she's not your girlfriend. What? She's not up for a little healthy competition?"

"There's no competition," Ben says, just as firmly, though not harshly.

 _It isn't fair,_ she thinks. _We could have fun! You would like to go with me! I would be worth going with! I could so make you forget some pretty white girl. Come on! Give me a chance!_

To both our surprise, he reaches out and takes hold of her, giving her a shake, silencing her mental tirade.

"I'm not prize at the end of a contest," he says evenly. "You can't win me. It just doesn't work that way."

 _Wow,_ she thinks. _He is so right! Wow, how come I didn't get that? He is such a great guy. I have never known anyone like him._

I have to agree.

She puts a hand on his chest, looking into his eyes. I am seeing red with jealousy.

"Can't blame a girl for trying, can you?" she asks.

As the night passes on, I become more and more introverted. I rely on my advanced mind to continue moving me about the world, taking in information, function as I would, but my focus is internal, on the deep and profound thoughts that begin to plague me.

What if Ben decides to leave me? We have agreed to be dating, and nothing else. I have no confessed my love for him, and thought he cares for me and trusts me, he will never love me the way I love him, living as he is, as a human. I have no right to anything. As I consider it, I realize that I have no more right to keep him human than I would if I decided to make him vampire. I have no more right to ask him to stay away from her than I do to ask him to stay with me. He has the ability to make his own decision and that thrills me and scares me. It is easy to say that I care about Ben no matter what when he is with me, but when he is with her, talking and laughing and obviously having a deeper and more meaningful connection than he has with the girls who prance about and want his attention, I am afraid not only that he might leave me but that he might be better off. It is easy to say I will care about him no matter what, but it is so much harder when actually faced with the possibility that he and I may not end up together, that an alternative might be better for him. I am so torn, not for what he might do, but what I must do if he should choose another.

I come back to myself in his yard. I search my memories and realize that I have been home and spoken with my family about what I learned and told them of the reason we need not fear more from Josie Black. I have written and mailed a simple letter to Belinda Black, with the words "You daughter broke the treaty. Please take steps to insure that it doesn't happen again." I also have seen that Ben is still within Alice's mind, duel selves as ever. I feel better, if only marginally. I slip into Ben's room, and as soon as I am there, his tossing and turning ends and he settles, beginning to speak my name. I feel happier.

I sneak away at dusk, as always, this time kissing his head before I go. He sighs in a gratifying way, and I run home and change, chatting with Emanuel about being jealous, and he smiles and simply loves me as I sulk. Finally, he kisses me and hugs me and tells me that everything will be alright and that Ben gets to make his own choices, and I get to learn by letting him. I smile, thank him, and grabbing the Mercedes, arriving a little early, as usual.

Ben exits his house, having to double back to remember to lock it, then seems as though he is trying not to walk too quickly to get to me. I smile.

He gets in, glancing at me, but saying nothing. I momentarily wonder if he will talk about last night, or if there is a way for me to bring it up with totally giving away the fact that I overheard everything, that I was there.

"How was your night?" I ask casually.

"Good," he says in similar tones, and I feel pleased that his voice still has the gratified sigh hinting at it. "Had friends of the family come by for a visit."

"Oh?" she asked, curiosity too much for me. I have to know!

"The Blacks," he says, no guard to his voice at all, "from La Push."

What can I safely say to that?

"Any more stories about supposedly mythical creatures they wanted to tell you about?" I tease, glancing at him.

He isn't smiling. His face is rather serious, a sort of resignation to his expression, as though he must discuss something unpleasant. I have to pull eyes back to the road because a car is passing and the driver is focused on his stereo and not the road.

"Belinda Black is worried about us," he says. I almost sigh and laugh in relief.

"She believes what you are," he continues, his tone still serious, "and she doesn't want me to get hurt."

There is something to how he says that last sentence, and I suddenly realize that we all, all three of us, know that this is a distinct possibility.

"I don't want that either," I say to no one in particular, before I can stop myself. "If I thought that it was likely, I would not be alone with you."

"I don't mind being alone with you," he says, a nearly covetous tone to his words. "I almost prefer it."

As much as I would love to have him all to myself, even more so than I do, separated from the public at large, I realize that the aspects of myself that lust for his blood like that too. Too much.

He is looking at me, so I smile at him.

"Don't give me any ideas," I say, trying to keep up my pleasant tease. "What would your mother say if I didn't bring you back?"

I am able to cover the despair that I feel at almost admitting what I might do tomorrow.

"I don't know what she would think," he says. "I didn't tell her where I was going."

I feel myself become still. He really hasn't told her. Has he told her anything, at all? Not last night, not this morning? Purposefully?

"You didn't tell her?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even. "Why not?"

He shrugs, playing it off as no big deal.

"Two reasons, I guess," he says lightly. "One, I have trouble talking about you, especially with mom. I feel like I'm sharing you, and I don't want to. I don't want how I feel about you to be wrong, and the more people who get to judge it and me, the less important my feelings seem."

He feels intensely about me and doesn't want to share me? That at least is flattering. But he is afraid that his feelings for me are wrong, and he is afraid of being talked out of them? He doesn't want to be talked out of anything others might judge to be dangerous? Why _not_!?

But I have to know. I have to know the second before I can decide just how mad I must be with him.

"And, the other reason?" I ask trying harder and harder to keep my voice casual.

"The other," he say, with a momentary pause that nearly has me ready to shake him, "is that I trust you."

I am not sure how I could become more still, but I am. I nearly stop driving.

"What?" I say, having to force my body to follow my commands.

"I trust you," he says again, his words nearly the same, "but I also understand that you might fail. It isn't your fault if you do. It would be a horrible accident, and I wouldn't want it to cause you or your family trouble if it happened. That wouldn't help things any, and it wouldn't bring me back in any case."

"You're-" I start, before I can fully comprehend what he is saying. I feel so intensely, my emotions all trying to vie for my attention and focus at once, that it takes me a moment to really understand exactly what he is saying and his words are so unbelievable that I can't believe what I am hearing.

"You're trying to make it easier for me," I ask, taking every fiber of my conscious mind not to be screaming at him, "in the event that I should kill you?"

"Yeah," he says, his tone still maddeningly light. "I don't think you will, but I wouldn't want my decision to end up making things difficult."

The car is turning. I don't remember making that decision. I am simply stopping the car beside the road in the most efficient way I can.

I turn to him, and in that moment, I lose total control. What I feel is on my face. All of it. It looks as though it is hurting him, but I can't stop. I can't anything but get what I am feeling out.

"You!" I cry, louder than I would ever talk to a human. "You cannot be this... this... selfless! Have you no sense of survival?! Of self-worth?! Do you not understand that it would be easy, so easy for me to kill you now, here, this very second?! You are taking away any obstacles that might be in my way! You're making it easier!"

I lean into his face, trying not to lunge at him. His scent is exciting for the first time in a long time, making me want to hunt, but what I feel is too profound, too extreme to allow for anything else.

"Do you want to die!?" I screech. "Why are you doing this to me?! Do you see how much you mean to me?! Do you have any earthly idea what it would do to me if I lost you!? If it was my fault!?"

As I say the words, the reality of it, the nearness of that possibility comes into my thoughts and is realized fully. I can almost feel his blood on my hands, cooling my throat, the taste, the strength it would give me, the power, the pleasure, the gratification, and the pain, the torment, the loss...

I shake, violently, then let go, my hands covering my face.

"You can't," I whisper, waves of grief and pain flowing over me, drowning me. "You can't do this to me. How would I ever survive..."

I cannot speak anymore. I fade, trying to disappear within myself, trying to hide from it all. The pain, what I am, what I might do, the shame of it all.

"Edwina."

It is the one thing that can break through to me; that voice, saying that word.

I feel soft, warm, gentle touch, pulling away my hands, bringing the world back to me, raising my face to his. There, he leans in, and I can't help but let my eyes flutter shut as the light, soft, gentle kiss alights upon the skin of my cheek. I feel empty, but it is the best feeling of emptiness I have ever felt. It is where my heart should be, where the pain is no longer.

"Have you no sense of self-worth?" he says, the words shocking me. "You are so much stronger than you are giving yourself credit for. What, you think that if my mother knew where I was, it would be the difference between you deciding to kill me or not? Are you really so weak that such excuses or justifications would be enough reason for you to keep my life or end it? If you made the decision to murder me, there is little I could do to try and stop you. It's your decision. I can't make it for you, nor would I. I trust you."

How is this even possible? I knew that his mind was a mystery to me, but how is it true that such a mind can exist? What must it have gone through to see the world in this way? How can he make me feel weak and strong at the same time, make me want to run and leap and yet be still and quiet? How can he make me doubt all my weakness and dare to dream of what untold strength might lie within me? How can he see me in all the ways I wish that I could be seen, but never thought it was possible to even know enough to ask for it?

"What are you?" I ask, unabashedly awed by him. "Are you some angel, here to torment me? Everything you are and want contradicts all that I know about the world and what humans are to each other. Before I met you, had I to asked for what I could want, my fantasies could only have been a fraction of the person you are. I would have settled for flimsy excuses for the traits you possess because I didn't know their true depths could exist in full, as they do in you. You may not be perfect, but you are so far beyond my ideal, it is all but simply comical."

He looks into my face, my hands in his. There is wonder in his eyes, and he looks at me in a way that no one has ever looked at me before, as though there is nothing I could say or do or be that would cause him to think less of me, that not matter what, he will always accept me for who I am, and that I will always be enough for him. Even if it kills him.

"I'm just me," he says. I can't but laugh. As though it were so simple a thing to be! With such faith, such braver!

"You are," I say, grinning at him. "But that seems an understatement somehow."

I restart the car and he sits back, though our closer hands remain entwined.

"Where are we going this weekend?" he asks me.

"I know of a place," I say smiling, wanting to have him all to myself, ready or not, "a meadow that's not too far. It is a rather pretty place, especially when the weather is nice."

"Okay," he accepts. He sounds eager if not excited, but then again, he doesn't strike me as the outdoorsy type. I park the car and we exit. This time, before he can fully extend his arm, I take it, in its straightened state. I do not want to be apart from him, even that little distance the bend would require me to be. I breath deeply, taking him in, feeling my every desire for him, basking in it, loving it and him.

At last, we must go our separate ways. He turns and looks into me, into my eyes, and I see them drop, considering me, my body, my lips, and I can sense his body respond, all the little ways that tells me he is attracted to me. He is so very human, so very boy. I adore him! I giggle, thrilling at feeling so entirely girlish, so very human myself.

"I don't think I will ever get tired of that," I say.

"What?" he asks, sounding as though he thinks he should be embarrassed.

"You being attracted to me," I say. "Your eyes dilating, your skin heating up, you heart pounding..."

I notice now that some weight has been lifted. I do feel stronger, more capable around him. I am no more willing to take risks, but what I might consider risky has changed. I feel a draw towards him, more powerfully than ever I have felt so far, similar to my hunger, only it is a desire to touch him, feel him pressed against me, to feel his skin on mine. I am lusting for him, so deeply for him that I might give in. So, I do, only so much, and no more.

I clutch the front of his shirt, careful not to actually touch him, yet pull him as close as I dare. His warmth and closeness is so inviting, so gratifying. I want more! How can I stand so little? But, I do not do more; he does.

He is careful, drawing his hand up, and carefully fits it to my cheek. It feels like melting warmth, seeping into my bones, like sugar dissolving into water, like caressing clouds, like licking heat, like joy, like a drug.

My eyes close, and I lose myself to him and his touch. To lose myself in his eyes is a wonder; this... this could easily become an addiction!

"Being touched by you feels criminal," I confess, trying to hide my smile be biting my lip, keeping my eyes closed as he continues to stroke my check. "It shouldn't be allowed."

"Why?" he asks, amused.

"If feels like we are breaking some rule, some limitation on what people should be allowed to have," I say. "It's too much, in so many, many ways."

"Okay," he says shortly, and promptly removes his hand. The shock of the sudden cessation is so dramatic that I am nearly heartbroken, agonizing. He openly guffaws at my reaction.

"No," I complain as he pivots and beings walking to class. I want to follow, to get him to keep going. I want retribution. I want to drag him to the nearest out of the way spot and wonder what else that touch might do to me. He cuts a glance to me, and he looks suddenly as though he is in similar distress, but he finds his resolve, so I do as well. I pout at him and turn, walking myself, and wonder what exactly he is looking at now to get his heart to accelerate like that while I am grinning to myself.

That morning, I decide to do something extraordinary. I actually pay attention in class. I answer questions, I smile, I engage. It is the most tedious and monotonous tripe, as always, but in the back of my mind, I know what I am really doing. I am avoiding thinking about the fact that I must tell Ben the truth. I have to leave at lunch! I do all I can to avoid the idea.

However, I can't not keep an eye on Ben. Even while I have my mind on other things, I check in on him almost continuously, even if I don't focus as hard as I have been. Just seeing him does me good.

Lunch finally arrives, and I step up to Ben as he walks out of his class, putting my chin on his shoulder, missing him terribly already. For a moment, I wanted to have his flesh between my teeth. I didn't want to bite him, but I wanted him against the same nerves that we use in our neophyte state to sense the world, to feel him more viscerally or thoroughly than I could with just my hands, to experience him with mouth and lips and tongue, to know him with the most densely pack nerves my body possesses, beyond words, beyond thought.

"If I didn't know any better," he says, his sarcasm barely discernible to the unpracticed ear, "I would have thought you were eager to see me or something."

"High school is torture," I say, trying to quantify just how much I would be willing to give to have every class with him. "But I get to see a lot of you, so it's totally worth it."

"You could be seeing a lot of me with your own eyes," he says, and I love that we are thinking the same thing.

I think about having all my classes with him, and realize that with all my social clout, such a thing might not be possible. The very idea of trying to be with him more and failing is far worse than just being so regularly separated from him. Then I realize that I do need to leave in a matter of minutes and it crushes me. I hate the very idea of being a single inch further away from him than I am this very moment.

I shake my head, trying to wash way the weight of it, "I can't think about that too hard."

We move through the cafeteria, herding with the rest of the students towards the line for our meals.

"Why not?" he asks, sounds curious.

I realize that he thinks we are still having the conversation from before. I search for some train of thought before I end up outing my duplicity.

"Imagine," I say, trying to put the emotion into words that he would understand, "how you would feel not being able to see me all the time."

He frowns at me, "I don't see you all the time. Some of us have to wait for lunch because we aren't telepathic."

Brenda Chaney behind us suddenly focuses on our conversation. From Ben's tone, she couldn't dismiss his words as joking. I help her out. I laugh at his words so that she can hear and, true to form, he immediately notices that I am doing something out of the norm, sees her and instantly knows what happened. Leaning in to the side of my head, he brushes his lips against my hair, so that no one might see his lips, so close that he can whisper so that no human might overhear. With his soft lips and his warm breath, his body pressed so close, I am invariably humming with sensation and desire for him. I have to actively fight it down, so much so that I have to gather his words from my memory after he has spoken.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I forget sometimes."

I look up at him as he pulls back, and I would do just about anything to kiss him in that moment. But I don't think I would have to restraint to not do something against social norms. What fresh hell it is, not to have him as I would! Only now do I truly understand what he meant when he said it was hard to do anything but want me. I might need him to help dissuade me from embarrassing us both. I breathe and find my focus.

"I love it when you do that," I say.

He does not follow.

"Do what?" he asks.

"Forget what I am," I say simply, then I clarify. "Or rather treat me like I'm a person, like an equal. To be like you is, I think, the great aspersions of worthiness I could hope to achieve."

He shakes his head, as though what I think is beyond his understanding.

"Mine is to be worthy of you," he says. "I don't know how I got this lucky."

A laugh escapes me. _Him_ worthy of _me_?! _HIM LUCKY_!?

"Your view of me is ludicrous," I say affectionately.

He shakes my words off, "If you say so."

We get our food and are sitting at our table when I hear Alice.

 _It is almost time,_ she thinks. _Hurry up and tell him already!_

I try to put it off, making small talk, but I can't put it off any longer. I finally say, "I have a confession to make."

He hears my tone and looks at me, uneasy.

"Okay," he says.

"I am a bit worried about what your reaction will be," I allow. I try to play it off, exaggerating it so that he might be relieved when it isn't so very serious.

"Okay," he says again, giving me nothing.

"I will make it up to you," I declare. "I promise."

His look becomes calculating, yet he says nothing. I realize that I am still putting this off. I refrain from sighing.

"I must hunt," I say concisely, "before our date tomorrow. The only way I can do that adequately is to leave. I must travel out of state with my sister, and I won't be back until morning."

"That's okay," he says lightly, and I realize he hasn't realized the issue yet.

"When are you leaving?" he asks, and I must disillusion him.

"Pretty much now," I say, wincing the way a human does who is delivering bad news.

"No!" he exclaims, so loudly that a few people notice, aside from every member of my family.

I am forced to laugh in kind.

"I mean, no," he says at a more socially acceptable register. "I mean, okay. I... I understand."

"You are very cute," I say, smiling endearingly. His mood, which was quite dower, improves slightly.

"It isn't too far to walk home," he says lightly. "I've certainly walked further."

My face falls. In all my purposefully avoidance, I hadn't considered this all too important factor. How will he get home if I drove him?! Stupid self!

"I'm not going to make you walk!" I say, being overly loud in turn. He winces. I lower my voice.

"I apologize if I embarrassed you just now," I say smoothly, "but no, I'm not going to leave you without a ride. Your truck will be in its usual parking spot when you get out of school."

"Okay, but you're not leaving," he says insistently.

I can't help but think of all the ways he might keep me here. They range from the comical, his arms around my ankles, to the spine tingling, him whispering his deepest secrets in my ear, to the down right captivating, his lips just below my ear, where my jaw meets my neck, his hand against my thigh where no one can see, sliding...

I have to stop myself right there. Why must I leave!?

"Yet," he says, sounding defensive. "I mean yet. It won't matter if you leave now or after lunch."

Alice sighs, and I can see that she accounted for him wanting to keep me here, and is waiting for his keys which I covertly slip from his pocket and, in a glance, sight a line under the tables and find that I can throw them almost to her. She gets up, walking towards the line, and I calculate, throwing them to her at the exact moment so that no one notices. Taking them, she walks out of the cafeteria.

I consider his words, and find them somewhat... codependent.

"That doesn't seem like the healthiest way to go about it," I say to him.

"How so?" he asks, tilting his head to one side.

"You want ever minute you can to spend with me," I say carefully. "Aren't you afraid that you will lose yourself or your life in me and mine?"

He thinks about my words, carefully too. I am glad he is taking my concerns seriously.

"No," he says. "I'm not concerned. Or afraid. I will do what I want to do. If it creates trouble for me, then I'll do something different. But I can't live my life trying to avoid doing everything that might result in doing something wrong. I'd drive myself crazy if I tried to do anything more than just exist."

Hmm. I suppose humans are limited. It isn't as though he can consider as many options as I can, nor that he can think about them as often as I can. Trying to keep track of all the options, with less than perfect recall and cognition, would be very taxing, not to mention inefficient. I guess that I am wrong.

"You're right," I admit, but then I consider what the price of a mistake might cost me and add, "mostly. I can't afford to make mistakes with you. If I do, you won't survive it."

He stares at me a long moment, then shakes his head.

"It is possible for you not to be perfect," he says, with the slightest sarcasm to his words. "You can make mistakes that won't cause my death."

"Maybe," I say thinking about it. "It depends heavily on what your definition of a mistake is."

"Huh," he responses. "Yeah. That's a good point. I guess, a mistake is anything that doesn't make you happy."

"That's no good," I say, laughing. "After all, many addicts are perfectly happy to take their drug of choice."

"You're missing the point," he says, shaking his head, his tone disagreeable. "Have you ever known a happy addict?"

I consider all my memories, sorting through every drug addict I have come in contact with. He has a point.

"I don't mean temporarily happy," he elaborates, "or even less miserable. I mean genuinely, undeniably happy. Being with you makes me happy, but I'm not with you all the time. I have responsibilities; school, chores, being at home, talking to friends and family. I must be responsible too."

"So, how do you recognize a mistake?" I ask, trying to follow his logic. "I mean, it's obvious that a lot of people have a hard time knowing when they have done something wrong."

"True," he considers too. "What do you think?"

I have to grin. He is so thoughtful. Even if he doesn't know and he is just trying to cover for it, the fact that he asked my opinion is so unusual. God, I want to kiss him!

"Honesty," I say, considering the facts he has established, "I think; being honest with yourself, really honest. And something else. Information maybe."

"Information?" he asks, unsure.

"From others," I go on. "Like input or advice or what have you."

"No," he says, a pleasant tone to his voice, a lightness, as though in awe of his own thoughts. "Trust. It's trust. People can tell you what's up all the live long day, but if you don't trust them, it won't matter."

I nod. This feels amazing to me. Like yesterday, making our decisions around sex, we are working together, offering our own thoughts, countering with new logic, new insights. He is bring his truth to the table, and I am bringing mine, and we are working as one to make the pieces fit, working top find new answers together, better than the other could ever do alone. We are as one, a single unit. It feels right. I feel... happy with him.

So, naturally, Alice chooses this moment to interrupt.

"Hi Ben," she says, beaming at him.

"Go away, Alice," I whisper so that Ben cannot see or hear me. She naturally ignores me.

"Hello, Alice," he says. He looks thoughtful, and before I can read her thoughts, she moves on.

"I'm not telling you that," she laughs. "You are going to have to see it through on your own."

He must be wondering about the future, his future. What did he want to know? I will have to ask him tomorrow.

He thinks a long moment, then asks, "What will you tell me then?"

Alice appreciates this. It is so strange to me. As I watch, I realize that Ben isn't just insightful about me. It isn't as though he has been forged by the hammer of creation into a creature the balances perfectly with me. He fits well with her too, maybe the rest of my family as well. If he lives, no matter what I do, he will become one of us. It is like gravity. It's just the way it is.

She thinks about the duel image, and for a moment, I am afraid that she is going to tell him the truth, and it scares me so much I cannot control my reactions, but she doesn't.

"Behave yourself," she says, meaning tomorrow at the meadow. "I've always wanted a brother. And Rory doesn't count! He's way too much of a prima donna."

She takes my hand and raises me from the table.

"I will see you tomorrow," I say over my shoulder. Alice is fully prepared to drag me if I don't keep up. He just watches me go, sort of sad. I want to break my arm off and go back to him, but I don't think that he or the other students would appreciate that.

 _His truck is in the lot,_ she thinks at me. _Let's go._

Before we leave, I grab a sheet of paper from my locker and write him a quick note. I stick it in his cab, for him to find; Be safe. I check to make sure the keys are there and then return to my sister.

We climb into the Mercedes, her driving. Apparently, she sees that I am going to be huffy, thinking of him, hoping that he is okay without me. She shows me that he will be, in her thoughts. He will spend that night at home, likely doing things like making some phone calls, checking emails, eating pizza, cleaning, watching television, and, not talking to his mom about me!

I stay huffy, but now for different reasons. She leaves me to it. Instead of trying to get me out of my funk with logic, she thinks about me, the whole way there. Not Jasper or Ben or anyone else. Just her and me. Her favorite times with me, her doing my hair, her playing games with me, her picking out my clothes, the moment I accepted her as my sister. Us, helping each other, supporting each other through this crazy, messed up half-life of ours, our indomitable sisterhood.

By the time we reach Clearwater Oregon, it is after dark, even with her ability to speed through traffic and avoid the police. We park in a spot that won't get noticed, and make our way into the Umpqua National Forest. We are efficient as ever, her guiding us, as we hunt. I gorge on Cougar, my favorite, and she takes a cougar and a black bear while she is at it.

I am finishing my fourth cougar, spotless and shuttering at the warmest, soothing, sweetest draft that I can ever let touch my throat again, even if it is rather repugnant. I relinquish my kill and turn to Alice, who is standing in the light of the nearly new moon, just starting to wax.

"Can I do it?" I ask. "Can I not kill him?"

"Yes," she says instantly, as though we have been talking this whole time. "But I cannot say if you will."

"What can you tell me?" I ask her, knowing that this is why we are here.

"I can tell you that this is a crossroads," she says. "If you do not kill him tomorrow, the image will change, subtly. The chances that he will join us will increase, slowly, at an accelerating rate over time, until the day he does become one of us. Until then, you will still risk his life, but tomorrow... tomorrow is going to be your hardest day on this path."

"So," I say, "if I get through it, it will only become easier."

She laughed her twinkling bell laugh.

"Of course not!" she giggled. "Just easier on the path of not killing Ben. There will still be other wrenches thrown in the plan, other things that could and might happen that could result in his death, or yours, or increase the chances that you would kill him, or that he might leave. But, given our current path, sure. It won't be harder for you to kill him than it will be tomorrow if nothing else in the world ever changes. I hope that makes you feel better."

I hug her, feeling momentarily vulnerable, "Will..."

I cannot get the words out. My grief at the thought is too great.

 _Of course I will help you!_ she thinks. _Though I will be grieving too, I will grieve with you. Oh, and I will stop you from killing yourself. I would never let you do that._

I sigh.

"You are such a pain," I tease. "I couldn't do that, not to Emanuel."

 _Liar._

I take one more breath.

"I love you," I say, "and you can stop me, if you can. But I can't live without him. I can't."

 _That is only true if you believe it to be,_ she thinks.

"Come on," I say. "Let's get back."

"Not just yet," she says. "One more thing."

"Okay," I say.

"Jocelyn Black," she says.

I freeze. I know whom she means. Ben's stutter over her name makes perfect sense now that I know the full name.

"What about her?" I ask.

"You know that she is in love with Ben," she states. "I can't see it clearly. There is something that is interfering, some strange dissonance I don't recognize, but she makes choices that bring her closer to him."

"What about him?" I ask. "What does he choose?"

" _You!_ " she pronounces. "He is her friend, and so long as you choose him and he is choosing you, that is all they will ever be. Close friends, but friends."

"Could they be more?" I ask.

She shakes her head, _I can't tell. She would want it, but to even have a chance, you couldn't just leave and never come back. You would have to break his heart and make him believe that you would never be with him ever again._

I shutter.

"I couldn't do that," I retort. "It hurts to even be away from him for this long. How could I ever hurt him like that?! It's not possible!"

She hugs me, _You asked!_

I smile, "I did, didn't I?"

"Is your worry assuaged?" she asked playfully. "Are you ready?"

I nod, "I am ready."


	11. Chapter 11: Meadow

It is time. I checked in on Ben, just before the time I normally leave his room. He had been restless, but there was no more I could have done. After gentling him into more restful sleep, whispering that I would return to him soon, I watched him a few moments from the foot of his bed, then kissed him softly upon the cheek before returning home. I spent the whole morning at the piano, finishing the piece that he inspired, wanting so ardently to play it for him but settling for Emanuel. He was appreciative. At last, Alice, who had been avoiding looking forward all morning, calls me up for my daily wardrobe.

I find that she has chosen for me a pair of tan cargo pants that are fitted in the hips and thighs but loose in the calf, with back and side pockets. Above that, she chose a simple button up shirt in white, over a similarly colored sports bra of simple design. I wonder about the sports bra, but knowing Alice, there is a reason I would understand in time. Over the shirt, she has me in a sleeveless dark green fleece.

Getting dressed, I chose a hiking boot, for show more than anything. I don't expressly need footwear, after all.

"Go on foot," she says to me, tying my hair back with a simple tie. "Then take his truck."

"Okay," I say, not asking questions and not needing to. I hug my sister, then Emily who is waiting outside the door, then my parents who are waiting at the front door. I say my goodbyes, then take to the woods. A gauge my speed by when I would like to arrive, and as I walk into his yard, I hear him upstairs. I walk to the door and knock, realizing that this is the first time I have actually come to call at his home before. Then I realize that this is the first time I have ever come to call on a person at their home ever. Even though I was very contrary even in my youth, I had always thought a caller would be coming for me, not the other way around. It feels so strange to be my age and still finding firsts. There is going to be a lot of firsts today, I think.

He opens the door, and I am about to greet him when I spy his khaki pants, white shirt, and green sweater and realize that we are dressed as closely to the same as Alice could like do without breaking the Laws of Fashion.

"What?" he asks, looking himself over. Then looks at my clothing and seems to understand, smiling. We are both in this together, and this is new ground for both of us. For all our differences, we are the same today.

"Hi," I say, almost confessing my affections right there by adding "Love" to my greeting.

"Hi," he says, looking excited yet coy.

His lips begin to part, as though they are about to open when something seems to occur to him. I sense a subtle lusting upon his part and see his point. We have never been so alone. I wonder what he will do with this information, and while the image of us kiss, pressed against the wall, is such a lovely notion, it would feel dishonest if I were to get us there myself, forewarned as I have been. So, I wait for him, allowing him to make the first move.

"I missed you," he says suddenly, he I don't think it could have been possible for him to choose a better opening.

"I missed you intently," I say, agreeing, "but now, we're here."

"Shall we go?" he asks, awkwardness starting to show in his expression. I should not hold him up if he feels uneasy.

"Let's," I say, giving him room to step out. He locks up and looks around.

"I'm driving?" he asks, noting my lack of car.

"If you like," I say, smiling. "I thought a change might be nice."

He seems to pick up on something in my manner or speech.

"Really?" he asks.

I tilt my head and cut a glance to him.

"Very well," I admit. "Alice made a suggestion."

"You could have just said so," he snorts, laughing.

He opens the door for me, which seems to take a little extra effort and know-how. I slide inside and he goes around. I find that I am anxious even before he has started the engine.

"Just take Highway 101 north to Highway 110," I say, breathing deeply of him, trying to distract myself from one anxiety with the burn of his sweet scent. "There is a trail at the end of 110."

It's Ben, so he understands something is up almost immediately. I cannot decide whether or not I want to get better at deceiving him.

"Is it my driving or my truck?" he inquires.

I try to smile.

"Both," I admit.

"I'll get us there in one piece," he says around a laugh. "Don't worry."

After a drive that feels magnitudes longer than it actually is, we arrive, and he parks near the trail head.

I consider how to best inform him of our path.

"As much as I would like to keep your arm," I say, a bit teasingly, as we disembark, "we are going to be off-trail and you might want to focus more on your own walking."

"We're going off-trail?" he asks, not at all confident. "I hope we don't have to be there until tomorrow."

I roll my eyes

"It won't take that long," I say, but something else enters my mind. "I could always carry you."

"Let's just go," he says scowling, and I realize that in my eagerness, I didn't phrase it in a way that he would be receptive to. I would love to run with Ben, show him a bit of what it is like to be me, in my world. Oh well. Maybe next time.

We begin our walk and he soon forgets his ill-temper and keeps his mind on what he is doing. After a long silence, he breaks it.

"Do you go out into the woods often?" he asks me.

"Sure," I say easily, enjoying any opportunity that he gets to know me better, and vice versa. "All the time. There probably isn't a person alive who knows the area here as well as I do, but it helps having the perceptions and memory I do."

The topic sparks a question that I would love to get an answer to myself.

"Speaking of which," I continue without a pause, "why did you go into the woods?"

He stops, which is fortuitous because the branch he lets go of doesn't, in fact, scratch him across the face. He looks confused. How do they ever get by on such a flawed mechanism that is human memory?

"I did?" he asks. "When?"

That is a fair point, actually.

"Not exactly sure," I say, considering. "A week ago, give or take twelve hours or so."

It takes him a moment.

"Oh! Right," he said, then seems put out by his recollection. "Um... I needed to get away to think."

"Away from what?" I ask, intrigued.

"Reality," he says cryptically, but goes on before I can demand more. "Real life. Sanity. Normalcy. I had this bomb dropped on me, this information that any logic person would have thought was crazy. I needed to be away from what was normal to really think about it, to be unbiased."

"Ah," I say, realizing the timing matches perfectly. "I guess that makes sense."

I think about him, in the woods, away from it all, much like we are now, trying to comprehend the truth. I consider the truths that I have confessed to him and realize that there are many, many more than I have not. I say that I trust him, but I really do not. I have the overwhelming need to confess another. I pick one according to our current topic, and add, without pause, "Josie told you?"

I am ready for any reaction that will come. Tripping was high on the list, so I steady him without trouble and keep walking.

"How-?" he asks, stammering. I just wait, wait as he searches my face, letting my feelings show.

"Why?" he finally asks. He hasn't started walking again, so I sigh quietly, doubling back. I do not want this to be an ordeal, but I concede that it isn't my choice to make.

"Why?" he asks again.

"Why what?" I ask for clarification.

He looks at me.

"You're afraid," he says simply.

I straighten, because he is right, of course.

"Yes," I admit, feeling vulnerable.

"Why are you afraid?" he asks. His tone is simple, without judgment.

"Because I have been intrusive," I confess. "I have been behaving unconscionably, like the monster I am."

He smiles a little.

"Well, then," he says, "you have nothing to worry about."

His implications that I am no monster is not amusing.

"Edwina," he says, smiling, "I don't care. I mean, well, I'm not exactly thrilled by the fact that you've been misleading me, but I get it. The only issue is, I can't really know you this way. I will never know you until you tell me everything, and not just the parts of you that you are comfortable sharing."

How does he do that!? Deep down, whether I have fully admitted it to myself or not, this is what I want this day must be about, to confess truths that I have been scared to tell him about until now. And he knows! He understands it. I have never told him how I feel, never really showed him what I am. And the thought that he might reject me, despite all I know of him, is still quite real.

"You're suggesting that I should come clean?" I ask.

He studies me.

"Do you need to?"

"Oh, yes!" I say meaningfully.

Though, I realize this isn't the time. We need to walk, and me doing both at the same time is not practical or wise. So, we continue, making our way to the meadow. He goes along without comment or protest. I help when I am needed, but I let him find his own path. Finally, at last, we make it to our destination.

I take it all in. The grass, the little flowers, the tree line, the view out and down the valley, the sun. I realize this is the moment. This is what we have been heading towards. I recall A.S. Byatt's Possession, "this will be the mid-point, to which everything ran, before, and from which everything will run". This is the moment I must confess all, everything to Ben. This is where I show him what I am.

He begins to steps forward, and I realize that his position there, seeing everything, is perfect.

"If you would," I say, my voice far off, somewhat listless, "wait there a moment, please."

He stands where he is.

I gauge the distances and find the perfect point, where to stand, facing away from him, towards the sun and sky. The clouds are shifting, and soon the meadow will be bathed in sunlight.

"You remember I mentioned that I couldn't go to school until Thursday, why we are here?" I ask rhetorically.

He nods, which I gather from the rustle of his clothing and the sound of his shifting hair. I indicate the clouds as they begin to pull away, calculate the time, and see that it is now. Without self-consciousness, I roll my shoulders, shift the fleece so that it falls to the grass behind me. I unbutton the shirt, realizing that this is the reason for the sports bra, and the simple tie, which I pull from my hair. As the sun finally parts from the clouds, sliding over us, I drop the shirt.

For a long moment, he didn't move, not even to breath. I let the warmth of the sun soak into me, letting him soak in what I am, just how inhuman a vampire is. Slowly, I turn to look upon him in turn. I could see the shards of light, reflected and refracted off my skin, dance upon him and the meadow around him. He wavers on his feet and then goes down to his knees. Finally he breaths again.

"You're..." he whispers, the words barely making it past his lips. "You're beautiful."

He looks upon my body, and for the first time in vampire memory, I feel self-conscious about my body. I fold my arms across my stomach. Now is the time. Now, I must show him everything.

"I," I begin, my voice low, "am the worst kind of monster. Nothing about me warns of your impending doom. Does any part of me repel you? I am glorious in the sun, a goddess, an angel, and a seductress in shadow. My face compels you closer, my voice guides you to me. Even my smell is enticing. In stillness I am graceful, and in motion, I am exquisite. As though I need any of this for my hunt."

I move to the far end of the meadow, moving fast enough to disappear, careful not to damage the topsoil. It takes him a moment to find me, and once he does, I move again, to the opposite end. Once he has found me the third time, I move behind him.

"Could you escape me?" she ask.

He all but falls forward, and something about his smell is different, more enticing. He scrabbles away, and something about his motions catch and hold my attention. I want him.

"Try," I say, moving to stand behind him and stay there silently as he looks about. I touch his face, a playful caress, but there is something different about my motions and I can't put my finger on what. He recoils from me, and this excites me. He smells so good, so inviting. Maybe I should calm down. Instead, I move past him, putting a hand lightly on his chest, just long enough for him to feel it, but still fast enough that he cannot see me.

At last, he is at his breaking point, and he runs. Perfect! I track him easily. I lightly edge his advancing foot to one side, so that it catches on his other leg. He goes down, completely at my mercy. I pitch him into the air, spinning. With ease, I guide him to the ground, uninjured, showing just how powerless he is against me. I catch him by his shirt, lifting him into the air, onto his feet again. He looks into my eyes and fear, undiluted and potent, fills his expression. And then, I am lost.

I am not me anymore. I am the hunter. All conscious thought as been pushed aside. He is prey. He is sustenance. He is mine.

"I..." I say, so very lost. "I want you."

I throw him across the meadow, hoping to take the fight from him.

 _No!_ I scream in my thoughts. _No! This is not food! This is not prey! This is Ben! This is my love! Stop this!_

"I want you," hisses from my lips. I cannot run at speed, though my determination is still sound. He gets up, tries to run, turning, realizing it is hopeless. He is mine!

And this, this is the moment that I kill him.

He stops, as though deciding something. Then turns, he walks towards me. I am momentarily confused, my hunter's instincts having no understanding for this action. It is making my job easier, so I don't mind. he walks to me, puts his hands on my face, and before I can follow through with the final blow, his lips touch mine.

Ben... Ben is kissing me. He is kissing me! His eyes are closed lightly, his hands moving to my waist. He pulls me closer, and it is all I can do to let him. He gentles me to him, his hands going to the small of my back, and the pain of my unsatiated hunger is replaced by the pain of how exquisite these sensations are and how close I was to never having them. His hands continue to rise, up my back, brushing ends of my hair.

And then, his lips shift against mine.

The sensation nearly unhinges my mind from my body. I am back, all the pathways of the hunter silent, all my intent for his blood gone. I am left with the heat of him against me, his lips molded to mine, and the grief of what I almost did. I almost killed him.

I try to retreat, but I am torn, finding my limit before I have parted with him, unable to go further. It is as though I am forced to return, so drawn am I to him. The feel of him, the touch, it is indescribable. I could live within each of these moments, each divisible instance of time, a million billion lifetimes, and still have not enough of him, of this. I could create entire new languages, filled with all the words for life and love and happiness that the world finds lacking, and still be unable to convey the depth and breadth of meaning I find here. Would that I could articulate it, I do not think that I would, for in this moment of our own creation, his and mine, I find a magic that I so vital, so integral to all that I am, I wish not to share it with anyone but him. I clutch it covetously to me, as I do him, my one and only love, the boy who, in the moment of his certain death, chose love, his love for me, whether it was to save him or not.

I cry out through our kiss, _our_ KISS, and nearly leap into his arms. We instantly topple to the grass, our kiss breaking as not to batter him further, but we settle, our foreheads together.

I get back some time, some memory that I was too absorbed to absorb. During our kiss, I clutched his face, fingers in his hair, holding him to me. I have it, all of it, in innumerable little details, the most potent memory I have ever encountered. I am so caught up in what I have gathered to my mind, it takes me longer than it should have to realize that this moment is not over.

"I knew you could do," he whispers, not a single doubt in his words or tone. "I knew it. I knew it."

I touch him, his hair, his skin, my eyes unable to meet his, my face unable to keep a single expression.

"You trusted me," I say. "You saw what I am and you trusted me."

He nods, as though it was as to be expected, "I love you."

My eyes shoot to his, the earnest beauty of their brown depths warm and open and pure. He beat me to it!? I- I kiss him again.

"I love you," I say, once the kiss is over. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to say that to you and have you believe it. And here you go and tell me that you love me first!"

"How long?" he asks, but I cannot answer him. To answer would require me to stop smiling as I am, and that is impossible.

"How long?" he insists.

I laugh delightedly.

"Really, it's only been eight and a half days," I say, "but it feels considerably longer."

He seems to think about it, counting backward, no doubt.

"Wait," he says as he gets to the solution, to the answer that will seem strange to him. "What happened in the middle of the night Thursday?"

I am going to tell him. I am going to have the same faith he has in me, in us, and I am going to tell him. Why was I ever afraid of how he might respond?

"You said my name in your sleep," I say simply.

He blushes so violently, I am almost alarmed, but cannot be so and so amused at once. I laugh immoderately at his bashfulness.

"I just admitted to spying on you," I point out, "and you're embarrassed..."

"You've been waiting to say it since then?" he inquires, his words a little thick.

"I've known it was true then," I say, honestly flowing from me with so much ease, I wonder how I couldn't have seen in all so much easier before. "I loved you since the day of the accident. For a long time, I didn't want to admit it."

"Why?" he asks quietly

"Because," I say, solemn, his scent burning within me, "even now, I want to kill you. I just want you alive more. You deserve someone better than that, than someone who simply doesn't want to kill you more than they want to keep you."

He seems to digest my words.

"Why?" he asks at length.

 _WHY?!_

"Because you are the best person I've ever know," I say with utter finality.

"No!" he says going a little pink. "I mean, why do you want to kill me so much?"

I bring up a finger, tracing through the pool under his skin, the blood that I crave, as closest as I can ever allow myself to be to it.

I collect my thoughts, consider addiction, making decisions on wants and needs versus reality and results, and form my words.

"Have you ever done something you know you shouldn't?" I ask. "You believe that doing something would give you what you want or get you what you think you want, but in the end, you just end up unsatisfied?"

I watch as his mind backtrack, as it reverts through his life, finding such an occurrence. So close to him, I can take it all in, nothing of the outside world to distract my sight, and watch as he finds memory after memory, each thread leading to another.

"Yeah," he recalls. "As a kid, one year I ate my entire haul of Halloween candy in the middle of the night. I was so sick, I couldn't be around kids eating candy until after Valentine's day."

I smile at him, watching in fascination as the procession unfolds, link by link. His answer is perfect, the best I could have asked for.

"I want to kill you even though I know better," I explain, "because my body responses to you. From the moment I met you, your scent has drawn me to you with more strength than anyone I have ever met before. Imagine wanting that candy, but wanting it so badly, entertaining murder is not only acceptable, it is little more than an afterthought. Imagine wanting it with magnitudes more desire than any addict that has ever lived. When I met you, it was as though I was suddenly going through withdrawal from a substance that had been created solely for my own dependency."

"So," he says, sounding amused and bemused at once, "I'm your personal drug?"

"You are," I say, realizing just how much I cannot get enough of him, on so many levels. He is such a wonder to me; every time I look closer, he becomes even more so.

"If I were a lesser monster," I admit, "one who gives into to her baser needs, there isn't a length I wouldn't go to, a barrier that would stop me, a cost I wouldn't gladly pay to kill you."

"So," he says, nodding, "you're a better person than you believe yourself to be."

I come up short, astounded. He... he is right about me?

"You are getting it now, right?" he says, wisdom in his words along with an almost restrained eagerness. "You are better than that. You have a choice. Monsters don't. They kill because it is what they want. You want to be better more."

I look deep into those gorgeous eyes, "I want to be worthy of you more."

He puts his hand upon my face, much as he had done the previous morning, but there is something more to it, more intimate without feeling inherently sexual. My eyes flutter shut as he keeps moving his touch about my face, as though wanting to touch me and know me, so much the way I wish to touch him. But there is more to it than that. It is as though he has wanted to touch me for a long time, to know me, to know what it was like to touch another person this way, but never had the occasion or the invitation. He has it now; he could touch me wherever he liked, and I would have no complaints.

His hand starts to descend, my neck, the top of my chest, slowly questing towards expanses of myself that are currently concealed by clothing. A feeling is building in me, making me quiver, as though being still is no longer a possibility, as though I must move, must be invoked into action upon him.

He stops, and I am about to roll onto him, to demand him continue, when he moves to my arm. The warmth his nearness and constant contact inspires in me feels heady and makes me think of caramelization, of wind over rock, of melting, of breath, of dilation, of blooming, of need.

"That feels..." I say, trying to apply meaning to the sensations that can be conveyed. "There aren't words."

He touching continues, and I soak it all in, finding a renewed definition for contentment.

"How can you move," he asks, "and still feel so solid?"

I succeed in not laughing. I take my own finger and draw the same path he just had, my own flesh giving under my touch, my finger not feeling so hot, yet still warm.

"To others of my kind," I say, "I am not so hard, so cold."

He gets a look in his eyes, something akin to hunger, but there is something strong about his expression, determined, and I find myself feeling slightly weaker, vulnerable almost, with those eyes upon me, and for a moment, I see those eyes, golden and hard, and feel myself quiver, thrilled by possibilities that I cannot allow myself to wonder on.

His hand slides across my bare stomach, folded over itself so that his fingertips are upon his palm while his nails brush against me. Once around my side, his hand opens, fingers slide out, expanding over me, sending tendrils of sensation all about me. I feel something building in me, making my restraint crumble, make me want to be less careful.

"You..." I barely murmur, "are walking a very fine line."

"How?" he asks, his words brushing over me as his breath does so in kind.

"You have no idea how good that feels," I say. "I want so desperately to touch you back, but I daren't. I won't risk you."

"You won't?" he inquires, his tone teasing, challenging, speaking of mischievousness.

I feel suddenly very worried.

"No," I say, starting to feel anxious, especially since his hand has stopped moving.

He moves as though to back away from me, to separate himself from me, and I am reminded of the previous day and the cavalier way he removed himself from me before class.

"No!" I protest desperately, reaching to return him to me, not caring for a moment that having him return might cause me to lose all reason and willingly risk his life just so that I get to touch him in return. But, before I can gain control of his motion, I see the way in which he is shifting and realize that he is returning to me, scooting downwards. I do not understand exactly why he is doing this until his lips alight just above my Xiphoid process.

I gasp, feeling as though liquid electricity has flashed through me, arcing through me as I arch around him. My back bows, bringing my shoulders and hips back, managing to keep stationary to spot his lips touch me. Yet so intense is the feeling, that I have trouble keeping the rest of myself still and end up bowing back the other way, as though to wrap myself around him, as though I want to enclose him and hold him to me. I lose track of all things that aren't him and his little kisses upon me, lose the world and gravity with it. My hands dig into the earth for support as I momentarily feel as though I am about to fall off the face the world.

I have to leave. I have to stop. If I do not stop, I will be unable to. If I lose hold of my restraint, there is no telling what other restraint I might lose in turn. He is too much at risk. I cannot allow that, not matter... no matter how goddamned good it feels!

"I'm sorry," he whispers, though his attention is not on me, on the other side of the field.

"No," I say so that he can hear me, only then realizing that he understood I could hear him even though he whispered. "A moment, if you please."

He finds me and waits, patiently. It is sixty-seven seconds before I can trust myself enough to be near him. I recover my shirt, shake it clear of any excess dirt, and slip it on, buttoning it to just above the spot where is mouth was. I have to take an instant to remove that thought from my consciousness so that I can function without starting to tear his clothes off. Picking up the vest, I come to sit beside him.

"I'm very sorry," I say politely. "I let myself get carried away. You were, quite exquisitely, tempting me to be... less inhibited. I was becoming unsure if I was going to kiss you or kill you or both."

"Should I not?" he asks, his words seeming to trail off, sounding a bit embarrassed, or dare I think it, disappointed?

"Maybe," I say, considering him."Why were you doing that?"

"I don't know," he says. "Because I wanted to."

"Why did you want to?" I ask, my curiosity too much to bare.

He considers my words very carefully.

"Huh," he says thoughtfully. "I guess, I really wasn't doing it because I wanted to be all sexy or anything. I guess I was just doing it because it was fun to tease you, to get you all riled up. I wasn't doing it for any other reason that I can think of."

I understand what he means. He wasn't trying for a specific result. He wasn't attempting to get in my pants, as they say, or the like. He was simply doing what he wanted. I wish in that moment that I could. I want nothing more in that moment not to be shackled by my limitations, self-imposed or otherwise. I want to touch him without feeling as though I am risking his life.

And then, so simply, I see what had happened. He was not thinking. He was not in his head, worrying about everything that could go wrong or what he should or shouldn't do. He let go and did it. I want to do that too.

Turning, I approach him, carefully. I move slowly, but not just so that I might keep him safe, but also to observe all the detail that I possibly can, for as long as I can, and to prolong my anticipation, as long as I can stand. I finally place my hand on his chest, him warm and soft beneath my palm. I can feel his heart beating, feel the rush of breath in his lungs, the flow of blood in his vessels, the slight quiver going through him at my touch, the heat pluming off of him. Carefully, yet resolutely, I ease him back onto his elbows.

I find the motions I wish for so easily, coming without thought or consideration. It feels so normal to be and move as I am, it is a wonder I have never done it before. I shift about him, placing my hips over his, my legs about his, never resting any weight upon him other than what he needs in order to feel the pressure of me, the nearness, the intimacy. Looking deep into his warm, human eyes, so very Ben in every way, I know there is nothing else in this world that I want to do than to truly confess. Facing his own death, he chose to kiss me, as though not doing so would be his greatest regret. Facing eternity without him, not doing this would be mine.

"I'm in love with you," I say, giving my words a weight and tone as proportional to my feelings as I could. "I've been in love with you since the day of the accident, if not before then. That morning, when I saw that van coming for you, I didn't think. I cast aside everything, disregarding all that kept me and mine safe, for you. When I realized that, I couldn't admit to myself how much you meant to me because I never thought I'd get to have you. I always assumed that this would be one-sided, that no matter what, any admiration you might have for me would always be a shallow thing, and that you, despite all appearances to the contrary, would just be another typical human, willing to give of yourself in order to get what you wanted, and that you would flee as soon as you could no longer delude yourself about who and what I really am."

I touch his lips, wondering at how soft they are, so simple and yet so complex. We so easily take for granted everything miraculous around us. When would I ever truly see him as more than ordinary?

"How stupid I was!" I laugh, as though that has changed. "I tried so hard to stay away from you, for my own fear as well as your protection. But I couldn't deny myself forever. My plan would have worked perfectly if you weren't a person and my feelings didn't really exist. But I loved you, and it drove me crazy; the thought that if I did nothing, another might come to you. Even if those vapid, selfish children who asked you to the dance were only interested in themselves, a day would come when someone who come along, who you could and would be with, who would give you everything I wanted to give you and everything I wanted to give you and couldn't."

One like Jocelyn Black.

There is an expression on his face like he wants to say something, to protest, and it makes me feel stronger somehow. I give him a moment, to speak, but he seems enraptured with me, which also makes me feel stronger. I continue.

"I was going to leave," I confess. "I believed that I would find nothing here but pain, selfish delusion, and misery, a lifetime of watching from the wings, for how could anyone like you want a thing like me."

I smile, amused by my own stupidity and by the irony.

"And then," I say, confessing further, "when I slinked into your room in the night, unable to resist when I heard you talking in your sleep, you said my name. You begged me to stay. And in that moment, everything changed."

Carefully, oh so very carefully, I gently kiss him. I kiss him! I can _kiss_ him! I want to hold onto him and never let him go! I want him to never leave my side again. I will be with him, as much as he will allow me, forever.

"I told you that we are constant creatures," I say, for if I don't continue to speak, I will get swept away in the possibilities, in the delight of him. "But, in truth, we can change. The only thing powerful enough to change us is a change of the heart. We love deeply, powerfully, and constantly. The night I fell, the night I realized I loved you and that you might want me in return, everything changed for me. I knew that I loved you, though whether you truly loved me in return didn't matter. I would love you forever, and nothing would ever change that."

Something changes in his eyes. They go a little dull, distant, his focus no longer on the here and now.

"Hey," I say, touching his face in an attempt to regain his attention. "Where did you go?"

"Away," he says flatly.

"Why?" I ask, understanding and soft.

"Edwina," he says, and I feel a nearly electric shock run through me at his utterance, compounded by his eyes suddenly looking deep into mine. "I am mortal. I am but a child, no doubt, to you. I am flawed and dangerous for you to be near. I am finite and lost, unsure of just about everything about myself and my life. The only sure thing I have ever known is that you are the best and more worthy person I have ever know and could ask for. And I love you. I mean, seriously, me being here is pretty much proof that I am willing to risk my life just to spend time with you. But in the end, how could anything I do compare to you? Our relationship is doomed to be one-sided. What could I ever do compared with what you can do? How could I ever be good enough for you?"

For an instant, something occurs to me, something frightening. In some small fashion, he is right. If I am to keep him human, his means and abilities will always be substandard to mine. But, if he becomes a vampire, the changes that will be put upon him will make it impossible for me to ever leave him. Not only will he be strong enough to stay with me, not only will every physical detriment be removed from our relationship, not only will he be made undeniably beautiful above and beyond the attraction I already feel for him, he will have vampire means and abilities. He will be an equal to me in many regards and beyond me in others, able to do everything that he does now with our level of commitment and power. His heart, his ability to love me, all that he could choose to do, to improve his life and the world around him, to be a loving member of my family, to be my love, and my partner in this life, he could do so with so much more control and magnitude than I can imagine him doing up to this point. The degree to which he could change me and my life staggers me.

And, I cannot allow it. I love him too much to let him make the decision so lightly. He might choose to end his life because he loves me, but he is mortal. He is not capable of understanding this decision to its fullest. I could never let him die for me, risk his soul for me, not until he truly understands. So, I passed it over. I act as though such thoughts have not entered my head. I return to his words and react as I would have had no such considerations come to me.

I laugh.

"You are almost as big an idiot as I am!" I say, theatrically falling and rolling into the grass. "I worry about that every day. Fathom this for me; you don't care that I am a vampire."

"Yeah, so?" he protests, irritated.

"'So?'!" I exclaim, sitting up. "SO!? I am a mythical creature, a damned monster. I have murdered, I drink blood. I have committed more sins in my past than most humans commit in two lifetimes."

"And?" he says simply, so easily. "That doesn't matter to me."

"Exactly!" I say, facing him, pointing at his face passionately. "You have confessed it! It matters naught to you what I have done, who I have wronged, what I am. You see me, truly, and still have faith and trust in me. You care for me, who I am, what I want, earnestly and honestly. You love me. How could I ever deserve that?!"

"You deserve it," he objects, trying to find words to match my easy eloquence. "You deserve more-"

"Than what?" I demand avidly. "Than that!? Do you have any idea how much that is worth?"

"No," he says, reflecting. "I hadn't really thought about it. I mean, you have that from me, and you always will. It isn't exactly like I would do anything differently even if I could. It is just... what I have to offer, what I want to offer. It doesn't cost me anything to give this to you."

I straighten, gravely, "Except maybe your life."

"And I accept that," he says, just as easily. "I don't mean that in any sort of worthless way, as though my life means so little. I don't want to die, but I don't really see much of a point to a life without you."

I feel something twinge within me, a sort of wrenching feeling. I wonder for a moment if my heart beat. Is such a thing even possible?

And I am kissing him. But this is not the gentle, simple act that I bestowed upon him minutes earlier. This is truest passion, a degree of animal intent that didn't understand words like restraint and careful. I am still myself, wholly in control of my actions, but they are freer, coming without reflection or thought, without consideration or reason. I kiss him as I have always wanted to kiss him, as I will always want to kiss him; without fear.

Ben kisses me back, and something began to shift in him. I had not thought to consider his restraint. He is suddenly wrapping his arms around me, pressing to me, taking deep, nearly gasping breaths of me, flooding the air with his scent, mixed with mine, which is somehow even more inviting. I remain in control of my hunger, but then, his motions change. He starts to touch me, his skin on mine and begins to tug at my shirt, and while he makes no motion to actually remove it, it is obvious that he wants to, and suddenly, I want him to too. I suddenly think that next time we are alone together, I should bring a second set of clothing for each of us, so that I might not have to be gentle with what we have on. The very idea rips through me, and bring to life a flaming desire to feel him, feel his heat without the interference of cloth, feel his bare skin against mine, all over, and I realize that somewhere inside me, some deep instinctual place within me, it feels wrong that we aren't rocking.

I am much better at recognizing my limit. Thank god.

I stand across the meadow from him, trying desperately to calm down, trying to convince myself why it is a wise idea.

"Oops," Ben says, and I laugh so that he can't hear. I listen to him reducing his breathing, the lust and attraction his body feels starting to relax, and it helps me calm as well.

"I'm sorry," he says, as though I were still sitting beside him. "I guess I got carried away."

I return to him, taking his hand, pressing it to my face, breathing him in, which grounds me further.

"I am so very sorry," I say, enjoying the bouquet of him. "I am not perfect, and you tantalize me so very much. I shouldn't let myself get so carried away."

"It was my fault," he says, trying to take all the blame upon himself so that I can bare none. "Alice warned me even..."

"It is no one's fault, Benjamin," I say, and he does not protest at my usage, which pleases me. My boy. My brave, lovely boy.

He takes me into his arms, guiding me down into the grass beside him, where he looks into my eyes and I into his.

"I love you," he says.

I am certain if heaven exists, it is crap compared to this moment. This is my heaven. I will accept nothing less.

I kiss him, as I did before, our loving kiss, our tender kiss.

"And I you," I say back to him.

I lose myself in his eyes. This time, he does not look away. He stays, gazing upon me, taking me in, his breathing calm, him relaxing, until, without surprise, he drifts to sleep, and I lose myself in him still.


	12. Chapter 12: Boyfriend

Ben is dozing, with a look of peace that makes me feel amazing. Simply knowing that he feels safe enough with me, comfortable enough to sleep, it makes me feel almost human, loved.

I shift, gently cradling his head upon my legs, using the fleece as a pillow, my hands caressing him slowly, easing him as I had for over a week, as I knew I now would for the foreseeable forever. After long minutes, he finally rouses, sighing quietly.

"Wow, that was dumb," he says, coy embarrassment in his tone.

"No it wasn't," I say quietly, my finger in his hair. I love his hair. I love all parts of him!

"Yeah, it was," he insists. "I hate the idea of missing any time with you."

How did I ever get so lucky?

I kiss his forehead.

"Again," I say, grinning, "not stupid."

His stomach gurgles, and for some reason, this strikes me as hilarious. With all the strange goings on that this day has brought, the idea of it being interrupted by something so mundane is very funny to me.

"It seems you can't escape being what you are," I say, brushing a bit of dirt from his face.

"Not yet, anyway," he murmurs.

For an instant, this comment frightens me. The only way he could escape being what he is would be to become what I am. Is it possible that this has occurred to him, truly? Has he already decided to end his human life? When, and how? I am suddenly in a fury of pondering.

"Do we have to leave?" he asks. My fears are put aside.

"I don't think you'll find much out here that you can eat," I say, smiling at him.

"True," he agrees. "I wished I thought about that earlier, but I was only thinking about you and getting here."

Suddenly, my previous thoughts about carrying him re-enter my mind.

"I wonder," I preface, trying to consider how to phrase my question so that he might say yes.

"What?" he asks, interested.

"Would you like to get back faster?" I ask, starting practically.

"Faster?" he asks, curious now.

"Yes," I say, using logic piece it out for him, keeping my voice shy and trying, subtly to encourage him to say yes. "I move faster than you. I was wondering, if you wouldn't mind, if I could carry you."

"Carry me?" he asks, no resentment in his tone.

"Yes, on my back," I clarify. "I could move quickly, getting back to the truck much faster. And, you could see how it is to move like me."

The expression on his face is conflicted, looking both curious but concerned, tinged with fear. I have seen that expression on too many males, concerned about their own masculinity not to recognize it.

"Oh come on," I say, imparting my voice with the tenner and cadence of the teenage girl I haven't been in nearly a hundred years. "You aren't any less of a person for being incapable of doing something that I can, nor are you less masculine for being carried by me. Climb on my back, and I will have you back to your truck in a moment."

It appears that I have successfully argued down every excuse he could think of, to which I am more than a little self-satisfied. He steps up to me and I turn my back to him so that he may climb on. However, his mind seems to be on other things, given his sudden arousal. I chuckle, finding him adorable in the moment and almost wish he would act upon his thoughts. I find that I appreciate the practice of being pushed to my limits. The better I am at this, the more practice I can get, the more likely I am to keep him alive.

He puts his arms around my shoulders, finding a comfortable placement for them. I settle his weight easily upon my arms under his legs, breathing deep his scent which makes me happy, if a bit aroused myself. As he positions his head beside mine, I press my lips to his cheek, quickly, before turning and running, carefully, for the truck.

I could have gone faster without risking injury to Ben, but I am careful. I keep to even ground, not taking paths that would keep me in the air for several strides or from objects that I would normally feel comfortable running over if I was alone. Once I have developed this skill a bit more, maybe, but for now, this is all I want to do. I am giving him a taste, nothing more.

We stop at the truck, and I can already tell by his breathing and heart rate that he is unwell.

"Are you okay?" I ask, wondering in what way I overdid it, what was too much for him.

"Fine," he says, his tone nonexistent.

I wait for him to say more, or move. He does neither.

"Would you like to climb down?" I ask, prompting him.

"Sure," he says, a bit squeakily.

He does nothing.

"Um," he finally says, "I can't..."

I have to laugh, though it is not wholly a happy thing. I take his arms down, which are clutching firmly to one another, the very definition of a death grip. Once his feet touch down, I turn and help him to sit, his knees bent, his head between them, taking deep, even, slow breaths.

"This..." he gasps, thickly sarcastic, "is dignified..."

"Are you truly alright?" I ask, worried that I might have overdone it and seriously hurt him somehow without realizing. "I could take you to my mother..."

"No!" he says, making as if to get up, and I have to catch him before he rolls on the ground. He floods with color, and I am a little relieved, somehow.

"No," he says, his voice more collected, his heart rate much improved. "I'm just not used to... that. My body is still trying to figure out what is real again."

I understand perfectly. I breathe his scent, which grounds me. He needs grounding, something real that will keep him here, in the moment.

"I can help with that," I say, holding my hands out to help him to his feet, should he want them. He takes them and I help him to rise, holding him as he sways, which feels amazing, both the acceptance and the feel of him. Pulling him a little closer, I lean into him, and whisper, "Don't move, please."

I feel him still, fairly well for his kind. I begin at his jaw, trailing small pressing kisses down his neck, one of the hardest acts I have ever done with restraint, testing my limits as I come down to sternal end of his clavicle, to which his clothing begins to interfere with my trek in the most distracting and irritating way. Once again, I wish that I could simply tear it away and continue. His jack-hammering heart was ludicrously loud.

"Head still fuzzy," he says, a bit teasingly, trying to cover that he actually wants more of me but doesn't know how to ask without embarrassment. "Maybe more would..."

He places his hands upon my hips, which is delicious, in and of itself, but he squeezes, and for some reason, despite his limited strength, this touch is a force unlike anything I have ever felt, all-powerful, unbreakable, drawing me in, making the aforementioned desire for clothes tearing an almost insatiable demand. I am starting to creep towards my limit, my eyes locking with his, wanting his lips, his skin, starting to wonder what more of him I might want...

"Or not," he says, taking a step back, his tone utterly unheated as his levels stop, gradually turning back around. He wobbles, and I am amazed by just how nonsexual I suddenly feel, steadying him and following his manner. He is learning to understand me as I am learning to understand myself. This makes me feel light, somehow, almost vulnerable, and I can't but hope that I can learn him as he learns himself.

I consider his unsteady step.

"Looks like I'm driving," I say without argument, reaching for his keys. I expect protestations, but he suddenly jumps, more animated than I would have thought his reaction would be. Strange.

"Hey, whoa!" he says, needing my assistance before he falls again.

"I can give you my keys," he says defensively. "You don't need to go digging in my pockets."

"You're not going to argue?" I ask, certainly disbelieving.

"Whether or not I was going to it is my choice to do so," he says, still defensive. "I make my decisions, remember?"

He's right. He is completely right. I am trying to take his choices away from him. He can argue if he wants to. It's not up to me. I am not trusting him. But I can. I am wrong, but that doesn't mean I can't start trusting him more, right now. I love him, so much. Just by being with him, I get to learn to be a better person.

"You're right," I admit. "I'm sorry, Love."

All expression melts off his face.

"What was that?" he asks, a smile starting to tug at his lips.

"Love?" I ask, smiling in turn.

"Yeah," he nods, his grin beatific. "I think I could get used to that."

I kiss him, but it is a playful thing, a happy thing, like a caress or a reminder, almost a teasing thing. And I want to tease him, to play with him, to feel like a girl, to be imperfect and wrong and still feel wonderfully loved by him, the way I trust that he really cares about me.

I smile, looking at him, enough to distract him as I remove the keys from his pocket.

"That was making it up to you," I say, and he looks confused.

"Making what up to me?" he asks.

I show him what I have pilfered.

He tries so very hard to appear angry, but he can't somehow hold onto it.

"You little..." he stammers, "sneak!"

I laugh uproariously, using the key to unlock the passenger door and opening it with the same efforts he did this morning, if a bit smoother and more quickly. He doesn't make more than two steps before he begins to stagger a bit, and rather than risking him embarrassing himself further, I take his arm and guide him to his seat, in a matter that appears more affectionate than really supportive from the outside. I settle him in before rounding back in an instant and taking my own seat, feeling comfortable to be back in an early 50's Chevy. It has been nearly forty-eight years.

It takes Ben settling against my arm to realize that I had run it the length of the seat, as I used to. I had seen the men of the day do so, and for some reason, I adopted it, along with their dress for a number of years. Men's clothing always got me strange looks, though some chose to see it as endearing. I wonder what Ben would think of me in men's clothing. Perhaps nothing unusual. It is fashionable in this day and age. I wonder how long it will be until the other way around is too...

"How old are you?" Ben asks me, so casually, so differently from the first time he asked.

"Not scared this time?" I ask, confining my grin.

"No," he says, his honesty stark. "I would have to say my fears around you are very different than they were before. My biggest fear now is you leaving."

I think about this. It is true, the idea of me leaving is abhorrent. I can think of only one reason that I would leave; if he asked me to. I do not know why my mind strayed back to Jocelyn Black as it does. But it could be less complicated. He may just decide that I really am a monster and wants me to leave.

"Mine is the same," I say. "Granted for different reasons, methinks."

He waits, and I can tell he is less interested in my fears than knowing more about my past. I cannot blame him.

"I was born the twentieth of June in nineteen oh one," I sigh teasingly, as though it is some great chore to reveal more honest things about myself.

He looks totally nonplussed, unable to do such a simple bit of calculation, "You're..."

"Nearly a hundred and four," I say for him, not bothering with the one hundred and three years, eight months, twenty-two days. "Yes."

"Wow," he says, shaking his head. "I can't imagine. I mean, I sort of can, but I've only experience seventeen years and that feel pretty normal to me."

Then, he smiles to himself and before I can ask, he says, "You ever worry about being a cradle robber?"

I cannot contain my laughter.

"Of all the things to worry about," I confess in jest, "that one never crossed my mind."

"When did you become a vampire?" he asks, earnestly. I feel suddenly uncomfortable, so much so that I am not readily able to hide it. This line of questioning is rapidly coming close to a topic that I already said that I would not discuss. Oh well. Humans and their memories. Perhaps he needs reminding. I would gladly do so, if it means changing the subject. I would not do so unnecessarily, though. He deserves as much of the truth as I can allow him, after all. And I love him. There is that, too.

"I was changed in the September of nineteen eighteen," I say sincerely, "shortly after my seventeenth birthday."

"Wow," he smiles meaningfully at me, "forever young."

I can't but roll my eyes at him.

"Of all the things to fixate on," I say with mock disdain, "my appearance has never been one of them. I have always been interested in... other things."

"Such as?" he asks curiously.

I glance at him, just long enough to see the youth in his expression. He looks so young, like the boy that time is slowly leaving behind, eager and wanting to know a little bit more about me, my life, and this extraordinary world that he is now a part of. I laugh, both empathetic and amused.

"In my youth," I say, trying to paint him a brief picture of the girl I once was, "The Great War was in full swing. Being a woman was of no concern to me; I wanted to fight. I wanted to stride off to glorious war and fight for what I believed to be right, to have such faith in my conviction that I cowed my enemies and brought Divine truth to those who would prop up fear and lies as gospel. I considered many options, for I was not content to be anything but a soldier, and that was impossible in that time without subterfuge. Had I and my family not been met with the Spanish Influenza, I might have fought and died in the war."

"Tell me," he practically demands as I turned into town, looking enrapture by my words.

"We were living in Chicago during the outbreak," I inform him, "We were sent to the hospital fairly early on. Katherine was working in one at the time, working as continuously as she could without drawing suspicion to herself for her lack of rest. She was alone then and was thinking of creating a companion for herself. I was in the final days of my life, the sole remainder of my family, when she changed me."

"What was it like?" he asks, innocently, or so it seemed. The thought of that time was not an easy thing to recall, not with my perfect memory. But this is one question I have no problem conveying to him. He might be hesitant when facing pain. I hope he is, and as soon as I have that thought, I feel sick at myself.

"Painful," I say. "It is the most painful experience I have ever felt, more painful than the idea of losing you. You are forced to endure such pain, more anguish than you could ever imagine, for three contiguous days. After that, you are an immortal and everything changes."

"You're worried about me knowing about this," he says. I am unsurprised for the first time. Of course he understands. It is Ben. How could he not have perceived?

"Yes," I say flatly.

"Why?" he asks, his tone so easy, so light, so unaware of the turmoil I am going through at the idea of him becoming something that I do not truly believe he can become without losing his soul.

I sigh.

"That is an involved and complex question," I say.

"No, look," he says, teasingly, as if explaining to a child that he is in no way talking down to, "there is only one word, with three letters. It's not that hard; why?"

I have to smile. He is right, after a fashion. I cannot keep him from this in fear. I trust him. Maybe he will believe me if I explain to him why I think he should remain human.

"A few different reasons," I reply. "One, it is dangerous, and even if that risk is very small, I don't like risking you so opening and intentionally. Two, it is not something that can be undone, and as much as I would wish not to belittle you, you're very young and could easily change your mind about such a choice. Three, what I am is monstrous, and I would not wish that upon anyone who had another choice. And lastly, I could never, ever be so selfish as to risk your soul just so I could perhaps keep you forever."

There is a protracted and increasingly uncomfortable silence. I go over my words, trying to figure out what caused it. Then, he speaks.

"I never said anything about me becoming a vampire," he says evenly. "I asked why you were worried about me knowing about you changing."

The utter and undisguised horror crashes over me. How could I have been so... SO-!? I had just tilted my hand. I had shown him my greatest fear, without need. I had handed him the dagger he could backstab me with in the worst way, thinking I had no choice when, truly, I did. In that moment, I know that I am not ready for Ben to know this and that I have made one of the gravest errors, one that could end us. I feel desperately lost.

"I..." I try to form words, unable. "I..."

He looks at me, and then laughs, shaking his head, "Freudian much?"

After a moment, I laugh too. I am afraid. When I am afraid, I lose faith in trust. But that is my choice. I can choose to trust that Ben will not destroy me with this knowledge. I can decide to have faith in him.

"I realize this topic upsets you," he says gently. "It is important to me that we enjoy the rest of our evening. But it is something I do want to talk about, another time. Okay?"

If there is anyone in the world who deserves my faith, it's him.

"Okay," I say, nodding in agreement.

The sun is just starting to kiss the treeline as I pull into his house. It is not very late yet. I think of my siblings, preparing for the dance, keeping up appearances. There is still enough time that we could go, if Ben would ever agree. I already know his answer, but I cannot help myself. I must see that face, one more time. At least.

"We could always still go-" I begin to say, but before I can get any farther, he looks as though I just insulted his truck, impugned his manhood, and suggested his mother was a harlot, all in one breath.

"I swear," his voice cracks, "if you mention that dance, I will never..."

I manage not to burst out laughing as he attempts to dole out words that match the severity of his anger and my transgression.

"I will never forgive you for eavesdropping on my conversation with Josie," he finally finishes.

I gauge his expression, his breathing rate, the surety of his features. He exits the truck and I follow.

"I was unaware that you hadn't," I say neutrally.

"I never said I had," he practically fires back.

"True," I concede.

He doesn't bother to invite me in. We enter and in his posture and body language, I can tell that I am as welcome here as he is to have me anywhere with him. What is he trying to get at? He surely isn't still mad. He would have brought it up before now, surely.

"Do I need to apologize for that?" I ask, more interested in his answer than concerned.

"Whether you apologize or not is incidental," he says, and I can tell by his tone that he is feeling hurt that I brought up the dance and wants to feel better. "The important part is whether or not I forgive you."

He is doing so by trying to feel in control of me, lording his forgiveness over me so that I might please him, in this case by valuing him. I am not going to play his game.

"I have not mentioned that of which we'll not speak of," I point out. "By your own admission, that is grounds for you forgiving me."

"Your logic is flawed," he attests, looking smug. "If a cause happens that prevents an effect, the effect is not guaranteed to happen if the cause doesn't."

He will say anything to be right, but he is missing the bigger picture. How long will I let this go on before I derail it? Do I have the right to? How is it any different that he tries to twist me to his will when I twist him to mine?

"Now you are just arguing semantics," I say, and cannot help adding a further point. "I could try and persuade you."

"How is that even fair?" he asks almost bitterly, as though he faults me for my own ability.

"It isn't?" I ask. If anything, this conversation is illuminating a lot for me.

"I have seen your ability to twist people around your finger should you so choose," he tells me, as though I had no idea. "I am also aware of how enticing you can be. I have no way of rebuffing that. I mean, I could, but why would I ever want to?"

The words, though said dismissively and with little deference, send a quiver through me. The idea of choosing to actively incite Ben into the sort of lusting that I inspire in all things attracted to human females is a potent... feeling. It makes me feel in control, desired, and capable. It only takes me an instant to forgive Ben for trying to do the same here. I decide that I must be the one to cave. I understand what is going on. How can I expect him to know and understand what he does not? I can't, really. I must forgive him his ignorance and simply love him.

My very brief mental train of thought has left me feeling girlish and human, which I very much like, and I find myself lounging upon the counter, in a way suggests that I want his attention, that I want him to notice me. I decide to let it slide, simply because it wasn't a conscious decision on my part.

"So," I say, my tone slightly teasing, with no really need to be right as I say, "you admit that you would willingly forgive me, so there is no point in arguing the point, is there?"

He looks disgruntled as he takes down a plate, opening a reasonably clean ice box and taking out pizza from a box, putting it on the plate with little ceremony as he heads over to the microwave. He enters the time as he says, his tone sour, "You could try apologizing."

I almost laugh.

"You said it was incidental," I say in mock protest. This really is a lot more fun when you don't really care. Nothing he says or does will change how I feel about him.

"If you are only apologizing so I will forgive you, what's the point?" he says, his tone harsh.

I begin moving towards him. I decide to offer him an out, to allow him to be happier, or not. The choice is his. And, a little incentivizing couldn't hurt. He can still say no!

"I could think of a reason or two," I say, a touch of a lilt to my voice.

He glances at me as though I have said something a bit frightening. I realize though that his fear isn't directed at me, but at just how easily he would give up his entire argument to continue on the path I have suggested. He is so cute when he's nervous.

"I am eating!" he protests, taking his food out of the microwave and heading for the table. I look at the two meager pieces of pizza as I sit in his mother's chair.

"Are you sure that's enough food?" I ask of him, distracted by concern. "I could make you something."

"You can cook?" he asks, looking surprised and understandably so.

"Of course," I smile, proud that I made the effort to learn for him. "It isn't hard to learn."

"Maybe another time," he says, not nearly as dismissively as I would have thought.

I decide to let him eat. He doesn't seem nearly as put out as he was.

Abruptly, he asks me, "You aren't sorry?"

Okay, maybe he still his. I consider his question and realize that I am not.

"No," I admit easily. "Or rather, I don't regret it. I can't not listen at times, and I didn't do what I did maliciously. I was just more eager to see you again than usual, and I couldn't wait."

Granted, Alice had told me that I needed to be there to help sooth relations with my family and the Quilleutes, but that was incidental.

"You had just left me," he states, as though he could be so easily dismissed by me, "and you were going to pick me up the next morning."

My laugh is explosive, and I manage to keep it to human levels.

"Oh no!" I say, still giggling, "There's no way I could have waited that long."

He looks confused, and says, "I don't understand."

I am going to be honest. At some point, he really must understand just how appealing he is to me.

"Oh I spend most nights here," I say easily.

He stops moving. His mouth that was open to receive more pizza stays open. The piece that was on the way to his mouth doesn't make it there. It does make it back onto the plate but just barely.

"Here where? Here here?" he splutters and begins to tremble with emotion.

"Not at this table," I say, amused, "but in this house, yes."

"But, um," he still seems confused, "why?"

I want to pounce on him. I want to kiss him a million million billion times! I want to show him just how breathless, how wonderful he makes me feel, how lovely, just by existing, in perhaps the only way a human might be able to understand; in access.

"Because you are here," I say instead. "What could the rest of the world offer compared to that?"

He tries very, very hard not to look pleased, which is to say, he failed.

"So you, what?" he asks. "Just sit here?"

"I watch you sleep," I tell him, and realize that isn't the whole truth, "and listen."

"Lis-" he begins, but seems to understand, his reaction is explosive, "No!"

He throws the piece back on his plate, trying to find the exit out of the room without conscious thought or even his memory to guide him, his only thought escape. It doesn't help that I keep appearing between him and ever doorway he aims for.

"No!" he protests, his face flushed, his embarrassment so thick that I am surprised it doesn't keep me from him, like a solid shield. I catch him up, holding him to me, contouring my form to his, letting his warmth sink into me, trying not to be distracted by him and the sensations he instills in me, simply by being.

"Peace, Love," I whisper in gentling tones. "Peace. You have no idea what a true gift it is to hear your dreams, to know you dream of me. Would that I could, I would dream of you."

After what seems a pause in which he is trying to decide whether to hold on to his anger, he finally relents, embracing me in return.

"Why must you be so understandable?" he says teasingly. "Can't you just let me be indignant?"

I consider his words.

"Would you be happier that way?" I ask in all seriousness.

He attempts to look at me with said indignation but can only laugh.

"Oh hush!" he teases, crushing me to him for one more moment before return to the table, good mood restored. He finishes quickly as I watch him, including cleaning his dish. He doesn't seem as self-conscious as he was before.

"So," he says, wiping his hands on a towel, "now that I am fed, what shall we do?"

"What would you like to do?" I ask, honestly not thinking past watching him forever.

He looks at me, coming to some conclusion, then let his eyes rover over me, as though considering, then looks into my eyes with an expression of speculation, of questioning, laden with innuendo. It was all horribly put on, an obvious joke. It is more fun for me if I don't let on that I knew.

I find an expression in my repertoire that I haven't used in some time. I become alluring, walking forward, but this time, unlike the time I used this skill to lead men to their deaths, the entire thread of the behavior is sidetracked. The desire that fills me, that I am trying to contain rather theatrically, isn't that for blood; it is that for him. It is far more real to me now than any blood lust could ever be, and is only so potent because I could have it. I can be with him, physically. Perhaps not to the depth and with the abandon that I desire, but I can, in a limited but no less discombobulating fashion, be with him. And it gives a realism to my poise and my manner that wasn't there before. And it almost pushes me into not pretending what I am doing.

"Uh..." he says as I come to him, fidgeting childishly and suggestively with my own clothing, wanting it to be his clothing under my hands, his body against mine. He looks about as nervous as if I were actually coming for his blood.

He steps back and I follow him up, cornering him and find that I like the feel of having him trapped. I quickly tamp back the dark parts of my mind, at last getting his clothing in my grasp. It is all I can do not to tear it away, but I realize in that moment, I want to tease him more. I want to joke and have fun and be a teenage girl a little longer. I suppose it is human to lose my head in him, but I do want to lose it completely.

I close my eyes, pressed to him, my lips almost to his, realizing that if he kissed me first, all might be lost. But, alas, he is still so very respectable. Or nervous.

"You're too easy," I whisper, my eyes falling open. The dismay and the surprise on his face is amazingly amusing, made all the more so by his entire lack of anger. He looks so very disappointed but looks as though he can't allow himself to be so. His laugh joins mine, and my touch on his arms becomes fond as I step back and look slightly up at him.

"Seriously," he says, gazing back at me. "What should we do?"

I think of what I might like to do best in the world.

"Talk," I say excitedly. "I want to know more about you."

"You know all about me," he says, nearly complaining. "I'm just starting to learn about you."

I smile broadly, flatter. I really can deny him so very little. I think if he asked for my hand before this day was out, I might just say yes.

"What would you like to know?" I ask, knowing that I am kidding myself. There is no might about it.

He considers.

"Why did you choose to stop killing humans?" he inquires.

What sort of a question is that? Does he not know me at all?

I let my face become incredulous.

"No," he says disagreeably, "I get why you did it, but, I guess, I mean, why do it? From your perspective, there really isn't much of a reason to stop killing humans, aside from the obvious one. Why would that become relevant to a being for whom it is a norm?"

It is a very fair question. One that gives away much of what we truly are. It is just the sort of question he would ask. Direct, blunt, divisive.

"Let's sit," I suggest.

He looks about, "Living room?"

"Or your bedroom," I say, but just as soon as a series of mental images slip through my thoughts of what that could lead to, I add, "or outside. Wherever you feel comfortable."

He thinks about it.

"Living room is fine," he says, then leads me to the couch. We sit in proximity, but still enough room for easily gaze upon one another.

"I suppose," I begin, forming my words, "that there is a parallel here, between humans and us. Many, many humans go about their lives, simply existing. They don't really change or make decisions or learn. They lead lives that are no less complex or meaningful to them, but they do everything by habit and routine with only structured deviations or diverge by necessity. However, there are some people who see their lives, who are willing to embrace change, to make a different decision because they choose something more for themselves than simply existing. They choose risk over conservation, change over comfort, and while it costs more in the short term, it benefits them much more in the long term. It takes work to live like that, but it is worth it."

He suddenly smirks.

"Yeah, it would be a shame if you were to give up on being with me for all this warm delicious blood," he says ever so invitingly. "All tasty and defenseless and right here..."

I decide right then and there to give up on teasing him so much. It is not nearly so fun when it is the other way around.

"You tease..." I say, trying to keep a joking tone but having a hard time over the flash burn in my throat.

"Have you ever drank human blood?" he asks curiously.

"Yes," I admit begrudgingly. "Only three members of my family haven't tasted human blood, ever, and that's my mother, my brother Rory, and Alice. Emily resists for the most part but has had two people who have been appealing to her, somewhat like you are to me. She didn't think twice, both times, before or after. Emanuel has had a moment of weakness or two, a long time ago. As for Jasper and I... There was a time when we were both rather prolific murderers."

He shutters, but his body shows no other sign of fear.

"Really?" he asks, and I nod.

"I questioned Katherine more in my youth," I explain. "In our early days, I was considered an adult, if not a woman, and thought myself wise. I decided that I would prefer an alternative lifestyle to Katherine's chastened rules, and walked my own path for a time, choosing to lead the life of a more traditional vampire. I used ever moral justification I could and spent my time on murderers, and rapists in particular. It was a rather poetic fate for them, truly, and, without going into detail, my hunts made it more so."

My ability to read minds made hunting easy. I could play them right into my hands, often stalking a particular prey for several full days, watching, learning habits and appeals, setting them up in such ways that they would be unable to avoid death at my hands, so inviting was I. I enjoyed the game of it, the challenge, and the moment when their power was ripped away from them, paling in comparison to mine.

Ben throws a pillow at me. The shock of it made me realize that I had been lost in my memories, the detailed deaths that had come at my hands, and he was drawing me back. I laugh so that he cannot hear and catch the pillow, tossing it back where he found it.

He is so wise for his years, so understanding. And yet, he seems wholly ignorant of his abilities. I don't understand how someone like him cannot be sure what he is or what he wants.

"Answer me something," I ask of him.

"Yes?" he asks in return.

"You keep saying that you are lost, saying that you don't know what to do with your life," I say. "Why is that?"

He thinks upon it.

"I've never really gotten along with kids my age," he explains. "I know how to be friends with them, but I've always sort of found them disingenuous, with a few exceptions. I don't seem to have any specific appeal to do anything over anything else. I appreciate books and movies, general story telling, but I don't love them. I'm meticulous and good at cleaning and cooking, but don't want to make it a career. I'm a good student, but at some point, I should choose something to study and I have no idea what that should be. It will probably be something that will help people or benefit society, but it will be something I choose for those reasons and not because I want to."

His little speech is like magic to me, and I am enraptured.

"Why?" I ask, having to have more. "Why can't wanting to help people be the reason you want to do something?"

"Because," he says, "it's too idealistic and without focus. You can't exactly sign up for Helping People classes at a college campus."

"They have more specific names," I say, unable not to laugh, "but such classes exist."

"I don't know," he says, a note of dejection in his voice. "Given the state of my college fund, I will be attending Seattle Community College."

The idea is nearly as abhorrent as him dying. What a waste!

"No," I pronounce, shaking my head. "I couldn't stand that."

"What?" he asks, my sudden passion surprising to him.

The very idea of him, staying in Forks, doing nothing of note, is like having blood on my lips that I cannot ingest. It is torture and unendurable.

"You are a great student," I exclaim zealously. "You're insightful and decent and dedicated and moral and amazing. If there is anyone in the world who deserves a great education at a first-rate school, it's someone like you."

"If you say so," he dismisses. I want to shout at him.

"I'm serious," I assert. "You're going to a good school if I have to pay for it myself."

His face becomes suddenly closed.

"No, you're not," he says, sounding almost angry.

"You're not going to sway me on this," I retort. "Believe someone who has been to college multiple times. And, it isn't as though we don't have the money."

"You're not spending money on me," he says, his voice utterly flat, his expression undeniably hostile. "Not that much, not on me, not for anything."

I look at him. I understand that he does not like making a fuss, that he doesn't like attention or to feel weak, but this is different.

"You don't want me spending money on you?" I ask. "Why?"

"Because," he says, his face falling, his eyes searching, his most common avoidance tactic. "Look, can we talk about something else?"

"Urgh!" I expound, wishing so desperately to read his mind in that moment, I would gladly reverse my gift; I would gladly give up the ability entirely, in all its many advantages, if I could read only his instead.

"At some point, not being able to read your thoughts will be less annoying!" I lament. "At least, I'm hoping."

"What?" he asks, not sounding as though he is any more willing to answer than before.

"What are you afraid of?" I demand, somewhat hotly. "The only reason not to answer a question and do so honestly is fear. What are you afraid of?"

To my utter relief, he thinks about it.

"I don't know," he says. "I guess... I guess that I don't like other people spending money on me."

"Other people meaning myself?" I clarify rhetorically, sounding perhaps a tad patronizing.

"People in general," he says, overly defensive, "but you more so. I mean, I've never had much. My dad was a teacher, and likely will be again once he and Felicia get settled somewhere. Anyway, my parents never really had much in the way of surplus income."

"And therefore you must also live a life of frugality?" I say haughtily. Why am I being so snobbish?

"No, it isn't that," he says, more reasonably than me. "It's just... I can't do the same for you. I can't give you anything you don't already have. It's like... I don't know. It's like, you're giving me so much already, more than I could ever ask for, maybe more than I think that I deserve. If you gave me more on top of that..."

In that moment, a moment of perfect clarity, I can see it. I can see it all. I take a step back from myself and look through his eyes.

Ben cannot see his worth. He can't. He sees my wealth and my beauty and my ability and my love and cannot compare to it. He sees himself only able to give me one thing, his love, which he sees as simple, easy, freely given. He grants it to me with the same ease in which he would toss away his life, should he need to in order to be with me. What else has he to give me? And yet, I empathize. I see his humanity, his heart, his love, his insight, his earnest goodness. What have I when compared with that?

"Oh no!" he nearly cries, his voice trembling, his reaction more animated than I have ever seen it. "No no no! I shouldn't have said that! What did I say? I'm sorry!"

I cannot but shake my head at him. I cannot think like this forever. He has seen good in me. I must see it too.

"No," I say, trying to ease his worry. "No, don't fret. I am just sad. We both believe the other is the better of us. I have no right to demand that you believe better of yourself when I am just as unwilling to do so. At some point, I'm going to have to start being a better person and not be complacent with just wishing that I was."

I only pray that someday, he will see what I see in him too.

He parts his lips, as though to speak, but then changes his mind and says something else.

"No," he says, the tone of truth about his words that he used when we discussed trusting one another to tell us when we are wrong. "It isn't that we need to be better; we both need to start seeing ourselves for the good that is in us. Only by seeing the good can we truly recognize the bad and do something about it."

Trust. In order to see the good in myself, I must trust him.

"Tell me," I say, both eager and terrified. I hope that I am good at this.

"Huh?" asks, coming up short.

"Tell me something good about myself," I say smiling. "If I can't see it and you can, then you would be the person to ask."

He presses his lips, contemplating.

"You're willing to do whatever it takes to be happy," he says casually.

"No, I'm not," I say instantly, immediately realizing that I am not trusting him.

He looks at me, and I cannot help but add, in self-defense, "You said doing the right thing was doing what made you happy and being responsible. If I did the responsible thing, I would leave and never come back."

"How would that make you happy?" he asks, and the thought twists something in me and it is all I can do not to let it show.

I finally allow, "It wouldn't, but neither would you doing chores rather than spending time with me."

"It would, though," he says, his tone not exactly insistent but close. "Look, being responsible isn't about doing things that you don't want to do in order to live; being responsible is about doing the things that need doing, that are necessary in order for you to live. And doing that will make you happy, if you do it for the right reasons."

"How so?" I ask, intrigued by his words.

"You can do something good for the wrong reasons, just as easily as doing something wrong for the right reasons," he says, and I am entranced by the cadence of his speech, along with the fervor of his word's meaning. "You can give a gift to someone for the wrong reason and you can shoot someone for the right ones."

I do not like what he is suggesting, or the comparison, for some reason, "You think my trying to give you money for college is for the wrong reasons?"

"Yes," he says simply.

"Why?" I shoot back, half in defense and half because I am just so curious to hear his point of view.

"Because you wouldn't take no for an answer!" he blurts out.

I am nearly as shocked as he looks by his outburst. After a silence, he says, "Look, if you want to give me something, give it to me, but I reserve the right to refuse it or not like it or whatever. Otherwise, you're not giving me a gift; you're trying to buy me, and I won't be bought, not by anyone. Not even you."

I absorb what he is trying to say. I am trying to take away his choice. I am trying to take away what little self-worth he does have. And even if I wasn't, what right do I have to tell him what to do with his life? I am afraid for him. I don't want him to choose any path that will bring him struggle or pain, but that isn't my decision to make.

"You're right," I admit.

His eyes meet mine, going slightly wide.

"I wasn't being fair to you," I say. "You are able to make your own decisions. I need to let you. That was my mistake."

He looks at me a long moment, and then, with a care and gentleness that is almost too slow for my preferences, he takes my hand, his warm spreading into me. I smile at my compassionate boy, scooting closer to him on the couch.

"How about me?" he asks, sounding happy. "What's a truth about myself that I'm not seeing?"

I laugh. The first thing that comes to mind is, in fact, what will be the hardest for him to see. Why not start from impossible?

"You're desirable," I say.

"What?" he laughs in return, as though I am joking, naturally. "No, really."

"I'm not joking," I insist, madly. "You are attractive to women."

"No, women just want me around for selfish reasons," he deflects.

"How am I selfish?" I ask, in mock disconcertion.

He frowns at that, begrudgingly.

"Okay," he relents, "most women."

I can't help but laugh.

"You're not getting out of it that easily," I reiterate. "Girls want you. Trust me on this; I can read minds, you know."

He rolls his eyes at my teasing recount of my ability.

"There's no way I can believe you," he says seriously.

"Why?" I ask, wanting to know so badly I am practically bouncing in my own head in anticipation.

"'Why'?" he barks a hollow laugh back. "Because it's not possible, that's why."

"It is impossible?" I ask sarcastically. "The universe would be functioning incorrectly if the fairer sex was drawn to you?"

He does not reply, simply looking across to me, not turning his face away.

"You don't want to be attractive," I say intuitively, looking at his face. There is some pain there, an old hurt, something from long ago. Additive, as though it has been building for some time.

He snorts but I can see, despite his lack of words, that I have touched on something. I continue, feeling him out as I go, "Because, if you are attractive, then there has to be some other reason why no one has asked you out or why you haven't had a relationship before now."

"No," he says childishly, without conviction.

"I think that's part of it," I say, shaking my head, "but you're right; it's not all of it."

He is protecting himself. He is trying to avoid pain. I realize that this applies to him now, and what is going on.

"Being unattractive is an excuse," I say, "a reason for you to never have to ask anyone out either. If you believe that no one wants you, you never have to risk asking anyone out and actually be rejected. This is you doing the wrong thing for the right reason. You are protecting yourself, but in such a way that you guarantee never being happy."

He finally looks away. I know I have it right now.

"I asked you out, didn't I?" he asks, his voice a whisper.

I impart a gentle, reassuring pressure on his hand.

"If I hadn't prompted you," I say in carefully, "would you have still asked me?"

"I don't know," he says with a shake of his head. "I guess I'm scared when it comes to interacting with girls. I never know what to say."

I consider his words. What response is he expecting?

"To what?" I ask.

"Huh?" he says, confused.

"You never know what to say in order to what?" I ask again.

"I don't know," he says simply, unaware what his words are implying. "I guess in order to make them like me, in order to stop them from rejecting me."

It is no different than me wanting to give him money and have him react the way I want.

"To control them?" I ask seriously.

"No," he retorts, but then, he begins digesting my words. I watch as he slowly spirals down into a funk of self-recrimination. I say nothing, giving him time to process his own feelings.

"Maybe," he says, a bit begrudgingly, but then, after considering, he takes a deep breath and looks into my eyes.

"Yes," he admits sincerely. "I am trying to control them. To control you too, probably."

For a moment, his honesty staggers me. I am almost afraid. The very idea of him trying to control me, that he has been controlling me, consciously or otherwise, is almost painful. It is really hard for me not to feel betrayed.

I just look at him.

"Why would you want to control me?" I ask, as soon as I can do so without letting the hurt into my words.

"For the same reason I wanted to control the girls before," he says. "Because I don't want to be rejected. I don't want to feel like I am not worth it. I don't want to risk being hurt. Because I am afraid."

He is afraid. He is just afraid. In that moment, I let go of my pain. I am just afraid too. I am afraid of his control, mostly because, if I am honest with myself, I am afraid I might just let him control me because I don't want to risk feeling worthless either. I consider his actions.

"People who are afraid don't speak the truth," I say, shaking my head. "They hide it so that it can't be used against them. What you just did was the opposite of fear. You are brave."

Before I can consider what to do next, he almost lunges forward, his mouth finding mine. His lips are warm and soft and he is so hot and close and smells amazing and I am afraid.

His lips on mine stop, and I can feel him starting to pull away. He is withdrawing. He is paying attention to me and thinking what I want, considering what might be hard for me over his own pleasure and what he wants, if only in retrospect.

I start to kiss him, carefully. Then, after a moment of reflection, I realize that I am nowhere near my limit. I have so much control in that moment, I could lose a lot and still feel safe, still keep him safe. I could let go. And so I do.

The kissing is suddenly feverish, without the heat on my part, but only in the literal sense. He burns under me, his rough breaths making the world a delicious blur around me, his kissing washing away my thoughts and his hands on me nearly unendurably pleasurable.

Without wasting time on worry or thought, I am pushing him back, mounting his hips with mine, pressing to him as much as I can stand, wanting him closer, wanting the least distance between us. My hands are in his hair, measuring him, memorizing him, feeling him. It feels amazing and freeing and so good. I feel close to the edge of something but not my control. I am not risking him, and the high of that feels better than I would have dreamed. I can have him. I want more. I touch his face and neck, then down further, my hand running over his clothes, knowing that I will soon do the same, without the clothes in the way, and that thought fills me with a humming delight that I cannot put into words. In a flash, I unbutton my shirt. My hands are on his stomach, and I am bout to start pulling off his shirt in turn when he backs away, just far enough to say, "Stop."

It takes me a moment to understand, and a moment longer for my hands to slow and cease. He said to stop? And then, that is when I realize it. I wasn't going to stop. I was fully prepared to take this the whole way. I was momentarily caught up in the hunger of it, the power, the freedom, the pleasure. Had he done nothing, not even gone along with it, I am not sure that I would have noticed. I would never have forgiven myself for that. But he understood. He somehow noticed. He stopped me. I understand where the limits for my hunger are; I hadn't considered that I might not know where the limits for my lust for him might be.

"I..." I say, but he brought this fingers to my lips, stopping me.

"No," he says easily. "I understand."

I believe him. He does understand. He may not understand just how meaningful what he did was to me, but he does understand me. And he is willing to put me first, still.

"You stopped for me," is all I can say. "You understood, and you stopped for me."

"You think I would stop for any other reason?" he asks, laughing.

I have to smile, even if I don't want to. He looks so lovely, tousled hair, delight in his eyes.

"There is a hunger to pressing, almost a dissatisfaction," he says, his hands taking both of mine, almost unconsciously. "When you are happy, content with what we have, it is easy, slow, light. You are kissing me for me, for us. When you aren't, it is hungry, clutching, always desiring, wanting more. When you are kissing me for you, I can tell. It is almost like I don't need to be here."

My God, he is exactly right. I feel sickened with myself. I do not know what to do with myself, wanting to withdraw my hands from his.

"You don't need to do that," he says, holding tighter to me. "You screwed up, and that's okay. I do recall telling you that you could."

He looks downwards at himself in indication, "And look, it didn't even kill me."

I laugh. I can't help it. He makes me laugh. He makes me smile. He makes me happy.

"I love you," I say. And he believes me. He smiles back, but then his eyes drop and immediately zeroes in on my unbuttoned shirt. His eyes go a little wide, and the looking in them makes something stir in me, latent desires that I have to force back.

"I..." he says, looking slightly dazed, "I didn't do that, did I?"

"Um, no," I say sheepishly. "That was... that was me."

He doesn't look away from my skin. I can see some heat building in his eyes, some desire, but he doesn't act on it. Not at first, and when he finally does, it isn't in the way I expect.

He reaches up, slowly, and puts a hand upon my bare stomach. It feels lovely, warm and exciting and I draw in every detail. His eyes catch mine, and I look back. I am about to look away, but his eyes hold mine. He is looking at me, his gaze focused, his eyes searching, steady and not leaving my face. I look back, trying to understand. He isn't just looking at me; he is seeing me. And then, I understand. The sensation has been at the forefront of my perception. The fact that it was Ben's hand has been secondary, in the moment. I knew that I have been selfish, but how deeply selfish now dawns on me. I am afraid, thinking he understands this, wondering how he will hold this against me, that he will remove his hand, that he will stop. But he just keeps looking at me, with those beautiful eyes. I am a wreck, a monster, imperfect, and he can see that. And he doesn't care.

My head rolls back a little, my eyes fluttering closed. Ben moves his hand. He is touching me. He is looking at me, focused on me, looking to see what this is inspiring in me. He is giving me the most amazing gift I have ever been given; acceptance.

I don't feel desire for him, the push, the desperation for more. I simply let Ben touch me. He could touch me anywhere, and I do not think I would be more aroused. This is intimacy, not sexuality. I wait as long as I can not to kiss him, but finally, I decide that this is enough waiting. I kiss him, touching Ben's face, not to feel his skin, his heat, his softness, the sensation that touch inspires in my skin. I am holding him, accepting him back, touching him for his sake, letting him know that I am here, with him, that I love him.

So, naturally, his mother comes around the corner at that moment.

I sit up, listening to be sure, and Ben catches on immediately.

"Mom?" he asks, and I nod. He starts to freak out, but I kiss him, on his forehead, knowing that I cannot "be" here when she arrives home, and I disappear upstairs. As lounge in his room, I can hear his anxiety and realize that he doesn't know where I went. I laugh just loud enough for him to hear and listen as he relaxes. I lay across his bed, breathing his scent, delirious with happiness as his mother pulls up and walks to the house.

I hear Ben barrel for the kitchen.

"Sorry mom," he says as she walks in. "I totally lost track of time. Dinner isn't even started."

I can sense confusion, detecting something about the dance. Did she think I was going to take him anyway?

"I thought you wouldn't be home yet," she probes. I am almost certain that I am right.

"Yeah," he fabricates. "I just got back."

"But no dance?" she asks, sounding like she is smiling. I can imagine his face and have to stifle my fit of giggles, settle for rolling on the bed.

"Mom," Ben says, sounding as though he is madder than mad but keeping it together, "if you never, ever mention a single school dance to anyone, ever again, it will be too soon."

"You don't need to get snippy," she says, sounding a little piqued herself.

"And you don't need to mention the dance at every single possible opportunity either," he points out.

"I can see what you're saying," she concedes. "But it isn't exactly like you would ever talk to me about these things if I didn't pester you."

There is a moment, of silence, and she feels so distant from him. I can empathize. I would never want to feel so distant from Ben. How amazing it must feel to be his mother! And how sad, knowing that he is wise and independent and doesn't need her as much as she would clearly like him to.

"I don't know, mom," he says. "You know I don't talk about this stuff much. But I can't ever be comfortable talking about it if you keep pestering me to talk to you about it at the pace you would prefer. I need to do so in my own time."

She considers being patient, "But you are going to tell me?"

"Sure," he says easily. "But not because you pester me. I will tell you because I want to, when I want to, and not before."

"Yeah," she sighs. "I'm really not great at this whole mom thing, am I?"

"Well, you did say you weren't," he says, referring to some previous conversation. "I can't expect you to get it right all at once. But don't expect me to do it right or your way either, and I think we'll figure it out."

Something flows through her mind; undisguised suspicion.

"What's up with you?" she asks.

There is a moment of relative silence, into which Ben's heart rate spikes.

"What?" he squeaks, and I moan so quietly only a vampire in the same room could hear it.

"You seem... different," she says. "When did you get all mature and reasonable?"

He gives nervous laugh, playing it off, "Are you suggesting that I am not normally?"

She snorted, doing something with the icebox, loading something in as far as I can tell. I get the slightest whiff of fresh fish.

"Not usually," she jokes before returning, "No, I'm serious. What gives?"

"I guess I just had a really good day," an obvious smile in his tone. I feel rather melty.

"Yeah, how was your trip?" she asks, her mind on something else, something related to La Push, maybe.

"I didn't go," he says easily.

I lie a little straighter, listening intently.

"You didn't?" she asks.

"No," he says, sounding a little unsure of himself.

"What did you do?" she asks, trying not to sound suspicious again.

"I spent the day with my girlfriend," he says casually.

I sit bolt upright. I have to clap my hands over my mouth to keep myself quiet, to keep the squeal of utter girlish delight from alerting all of Clallam county to my presence. I am pretty sure I can make out Alice's mutual delight, both mentally and actually, both on the edge of hearing.

"Your..." Carrie says downstairs, sounding rather breathless, unable to form thoughts.

"Girlfriend," he says, sounding nervous, but only because she is so out of sorts. I am trying to make no noise. It is really, very hard!

"So, does she have a name?" she finally says, her mind suddenly feeling rather cop like.

"Edwina Cullen," he says, sounding proud. I flop back down on the bed, burying my face in his pillow for a few muffled screams, still too low for them to hear.

Her thoughts are heartily dismayed.

"The doctor's daughter?" she asks.

"One of them, yes," he says in return.

There is series of the three of us, shifting through her mind. Each one of us is hugely exaggerated, looking more mature, sexualize, and somehow more dangerous.

"Which one?" she asks, sounding worried and trying to hide it.

"The younger one," he says, and I choke on a snort, managing to hold it back. "With the reddish hair."

Carrie says under her breath, "Of course, it had to be a redhead."

"What?" he asks.

"Isn't she a little old for you?" she asks, waving his question away.

I am glad I still had the pillow over my face. I wouldn't have been able to keep the laughter quiet otherwise.

"Those girls are a bit mature for you," she says. "I would have thought you would have dated someone... younger."

I get an almost definitive image of Jocelyn Black from her thoughts.

"She is a junior," he says defensively, "like me."

She realizes she stepped on a nerve and backtracks.

"So, when do I get to meet her?" she asks, trying to sound supportive.

I wonder what will happen if he comes and gets me. I am sure she will be less than happy about that.

"Tomorrow," he says quickly. I make plans accordingly.

"Didn't you spend today together?" she asks, sounding disconcerted. "And you're going to be spending time with her again already? Doesn't that seem a little much?"

"No," he says simply. "I am probably going to be spending a lot of time with her, though, so be prepared for her spending time around here."

I arch into his bed, jostling a little in my attempt to suppress my enthusiasm at his words. Yes, yes, a million times, yes!

Something changes downstairs. I don't, know what it is, but it is obvious when Ben speaks.

"I already ate," he says, shifting his weight like he does when he is looking around, looking for excuses.

I am not the only one who notices.

"Hey, what's wrong?" she asks.

"Nothing," he says, an obvious dodge. "Nothing's wrong. It's just been a long day. I could use some time to myself. More fishing tomorrow?"

He is coming upstairs! Oh, we have to be quiet. Sigh... I giggle silently.

"Yeah," she says, her words as much a front as his, "but just in the morning; I could use some time to myself too. Having friends can be exhausting sometimes."

She wishes he would trust her more. What about her trusting him?

"Alright," he says. "I'll invite Edwina over in the afternoon. Night mom."

I amend my plans.

He walks upstairs, his breathing shallow, even, his footfalls a little heavier than usual. I don't move.

He walks into the room, closing the door, and looking at me. He comes and sits on the edge of the bed. I smile at him, but I can see a sadness behind his eyes. The reveal to his mother didn't go as he would have liked, I can tell.

"Hello," I say politely, hoping to improve his mood.

"Hi," he says, looking down at his folded hands.

"Sorry you had to hear all that," he says. "My mom isn't being very fair to you."

She really wasn't, but she wasn't trusting him to make his own decisions either.

"Or you," I point out, but then say, "But I understand."

"I don't," he says unhappily.

I know how I would feel if I were her.

"She loves you," she says. "She doesn't want to see you get hurt."

She is just seeing an exaggerated potential for harm. People do it all the time, especially those who have been hurt themselves. Failed marriages can't be easy.

Downstairs, she is noticing a pillow on the couch from the dining room that has fallen. She walks over and rights it, and freezes. Carefully, she sniffs the air, and her mind is a wash of perfume, the image she has of me, and fear. I prepare to vault out the window if she comes upstairs, or maybe hide in the closet. She decides to wait. She doesn't know how to handle it, and she is afraid if she goes upstairs now, she will just end up screaming angrily. At least, that is what I am getting from the flurry of images and emotions and sounds that her mind currently is.

I decide to focus on the present.

"What can I do to help?" I ask. She is now in the kitchen making dinner and won't easily hear us.

At this moment, he notices my shirt, which I never bothered to button. He notices me noticing him and blushes, which makes me laugh. I quickly button the garment, and he actually looks unhappy about it, which amuse me and flatters me all at the same time. A thought enters my mind, a very interesting thought. He focused on me before. I want to return his gift in kind, with interest.

"How about this?" I ask. "Don't... move..."

He becomes more still, and I came to sit behind him. Apparently not being able to see me doesn't help him because he sits straight, shifting a little anxiously.

"Don't... move," I say intently, and I can feel him start to tremble, with makes me feel light and a bit quivery myself until I can calm down.

I take an opportunity to touch him. I see him as almost an extension of myself, as though suddenly I have this whole new self at my disposal, but one that I do not know yet. I touch his hair and his neck, listen to his heart, taking him in with all of my senses as I interact with him. He is excited, but on the calmer end of it, right up until I kiss his neck, letting my lips linger on his skin, followed by a slow investigation of his flesh with my tongue.

"I don't think I can stay still," he whispers, as though he has to whisper to keep his voice from cracking.

"Why?" I murmur into his neck, snuggling my face against his hair, his skin, wondering what I must feel like to him. I run a hand along his side, gently questing, not insisting.

"Because, you're going to drive me crazy," he says a bit hoarsely.

"Oh," I say in mock skepticism, a challenge in my word.

I kiss back up his neck, feeling his excitation jump as I come closer and closer to his ear, finally taking the soft lobe into my mouth, brushing it with the slightest pressure of teeth.

"Can I have a minute?" he asks, and I am closer to recognizing his limits as well.

I beam, falling back on his bed, loving that I am now welcome here. It almost makes me wish I had a bed to invite him into. I've had far flimsier excuses for such extravagance.

He hops up from the bed, looking to me, a look of torn longing on his face. I am content to wait for him to have his minute. I start counting.

"I'll be right back," he says seriously. "You're not allowed to leave."

As though there was any force that could make me do that. As though I would ever want to!

I make it a point to chose a position in the bed, a pose that I once used when Emanuel was trying out art before switching to architecture, and become still like only a vampire can. He grabs a few articles of clothing and heads to the bathroom.

I am complacent to think on the day, reliving memories and feeling happy, despite not smiling. He is showering when Carrie's mind catches my attention. She was washing dishes, but she has stopped and is leaning over the sink, her arms braced, her mind a knot of worry and old ache. She is afraid for Ben. I get from her mind the smell of latex, the old, almost nostalgic feel of her teen self, the pressure of responsibility, the worry of making a choice before one can know what the answer could be. I quickly surmise that she is concerned that Ben and I are having sex. She is perhaps worrying about an unexpected pregnancy. Well, at least that is something she will never have to worry about. I almost wish there was a way to alleviate her concern. It is so unnecessary.

I am considering giving Ben a hard time about his supposed "minute" when he reenters the room. But he looks somehow nervous as he slides into the bed next to me, and I cannot find the heart to be anything by gracious that he has returned to me. I settle beside him, rolling over so that my back meets his front, pulling his arms around me, feeling held and loved by him. I so wish that I could sleep!

"Hi," he says into my hair.

"Hello," I say back, holding his hand. "I missed you."

He laughs.

"Next time you can come with me," he teases.

The very idea has me still. I am not sure which would bring me more enjoyment, watching him in moments where he is utterly himself, naked in every sense of the word without a need for posturing, or stripping down and slipping into the warm water beside him, touching...

And that is my limit.

"Oh," I say with a hint at how enticing such a prospect is.

"Okay, maybe not," he says, utterly dismissive.

"Why?" I ask, wanting to turn to look at him. "What was that reaction about?"

"I guess," he says shyly, hiding his face in my hair. "I guess I am not the most comfortable person in the world when it comes to my body."

"Why?" I ask, so wishing I could read his expression. But maybe this is the most comfortable way we could have this conversation.

"Hey," he says, defensively, "guys can be insecure about their bodies too. Girls don't have a monopoly on that!"

"No," I gentle him, caressing his arms, moving them tighter around me.

Boys! They're so sensitive!

"I mean, really why?" I clarify. "Is there a particular reason?"

"Oh," he says, sounding sheepish. "Not a particular one. I am just, sort of skinny and I'm not really boy-pretty or anything."

"'Boy-pretty'?" I ask, trying not to laugh, feeling the heat in his face behind me.

Every one of my kind is beautiful. Worrying in any way about appearance is so pointless.

"Appearance is so utterly meaningless to me," I say.

Then, I consider; what if that weren't the case? What if I were human?

"Tell me this," I say, "if I were human, would you have had any more trouble talking to me than you did?"

"If I recall," he says pointedly, "I didn't have any trouble talking to you until you didn't want me to."

"Exactly," I reply. "You're ability to talk to me, interact with me, my worth has nothing to do with what you see when you look at me."

"I would value you the same if you were human or vampire," he says seriously, "and that still doesn't change the fact that you are gorgeous. I am not."

I cannot stand it any longer; I can't not see him, especially now. I turn, shifting as I do so that I am no further from him as reorient myself. Seeing him, feeling the love I do for him, and how little regard he has for himself, is too much. I want him. I want to make much over him and do all I can to drive these stupid, ill-conceived notions out of his head. He is the person I love most in this world, and thus everything he is is precious to me. I don't care what anyone else thinks, even him.

I circle him with my leg, something I hadn't realized I had been wanting to do to him for some time now, but the satisfaction in it is too deep to simply be an idle desire. Using it to leverage us even closer together, I put my hands on his face and my lips to his. I kiss him passionately, perhaps the most passionately I ever have. His heart rate skyrockets, his hands fitting themselves to me in ways I'm not sure that he even noticed and in ways I certainly didn't mind. Not at all...

Finally, I broke the kiss. I never wanted to stop, never want to stop, kissing him. But alas, I am trying to make a point that at some point will get lost if I just continue. Helping him see the wonder he is, the incredible soul I see him as, is way more important than this.

I continue to stroke his face, looking deeply into his eyes.

"You are beautiful," I tell him. "Just because you don't have the symmetry and aesthetics of a majority of the world consider to be advantageous when it comes to the structures of your face and body does not mean that you are not a wonder, marvelous to behold. Your features are a part of you, part of a person who is the best person I have ever known. You are priceless to me."

He presses his forehead to mine, smiling as his closes his eyes, a looking of casual satisfaction on his face. At least, that is what it looks like from this angle.

"Sometimes," he says, his voice a little rough, "I am afraid that I will never live up to the person you see me as."

I draw the backs of my fingers down the side of his face. He already is that person. Only he can't see it.

"You can worry about that if you want to," I say. "I will still just love you anyway."

He kisses me, and it is sweet and slow and makes me sink into myself, melting in the truest sense I have ever know.

"Where did you come from?" he asks, sounding as though he wonders if I am truly of this earth.

I giggle quietly at the first thought that comes into my head. Downstairs, Carrie is in her room, the furthest point from here. Still, I remain quiet.

"Chicago," I say, beaming.

"No," he protests, sounding slightly amused despite his defiance. "I mean, where did vampires come from?"

This time, I am giggling at the absurdity of me being able to answer that question just because I am one. Could he answer that question in kind, simply because he is a human?

"Where did you come from?" I ask.

"Forks," he says, this time laughing himself.

"You see my point?" I ask rhetorically, my tones still thick with amusement.

"Yeah," he says, nestling into me a little. I shutter with the ecstasy of it.

"We are all part of the same world," I say, not to be distracted. "Our prey is just a little more sophisticated. We have to take greater measures to stay out of the public eye. Our origins are no better understood or any more wondrous than yours."

"You don't think there is something magical about you?" he asks with a downturn of his mouth. Something about his tone makes me think that he doesn't like that any more than I did hearing that he didn't think he was beautiful. This makes me smile, biting my lip, as though if I did not, my smile might fly around the room or burst my face or go start kissing him again. This boy!

"Maybe, but could you not say the same of yourself?" I ask, almost seeing the world through new eyes, for him. "Even if you were to denounce the notion of God, which I find hard to do at times myself, you are still composed of the byproduct of stars, part of a billions of years old experiment in chemistry, resulting in one of the most complex organisms in the known universe. Please, tell me how you are more mystical than I."

He is a wonder among wonders, both no more special and yet more special than them all. It is the dichotomy of humans all over again, but this time, in pastels and brushstrokes of purest rapture, beauty, and light. It is all that my parents want me to see of this world. I am finally seeing it, because of him. No, not because of him; in him. I am seeing it in him, because of my love. And now, I can start to see it elsewhere too.

He kisses me and keeps kissing me. I let him. I almost laugh at the thought of ceasing. I would whine girlishly in protest and pull him back to me if he tried to stop in all but earnest. For a moment, he does pull back, and before I can even think to protest, I feel the rustle of cloth and then he is back. My body reacts while my mind reels as his shirt lands somewhere near our feet. Part of me is singing, and part of me is screaming. I am not sure which is happy and which is going a little crazy at what this means. He keeps kissing me, as though nothing has happened, and I keep kissing him, not wanting this moment to ever end.

But my curiosity gets the better of me. I shift to one side, whispering in his ear, "Tell me what your thinking," before continuing my kissing, this time on the side of his neck.

He gives what could loosely be construed as a laugh.

"I'm thinking that if you want a coherent answer out of me," he says, "doing that won't help."

Without thinking, my hand traces a single line down him, from clavicle to anterior iliac spine.

"Can I touch you?" I ask as I do, hoping I haven't overstepped my bounds.

"Um sure," he says, his words unsteady, but I do not believe they are from doubt.

One might say that in what was to follow that I took a liberty with that single affirmation. I did only what I asked that I could. I touch him. I touch him, every inch of him that was exposed to me, every bit of tender, soft, bare skin, in every way that comes to mind. I feel it to pleasure him and please myself, sating every curiosity and satisfying him, finding peace and intimacy and joy and excitation and arousal and life in the simple act. I find every bit of him that I can explore and wish, for a fleeting moment, that I could do so with my mouth as well as my hands. But that would be a liberty. I am about to ask, just in case he might actually let me, when he rolls up and onto me. After the number of times I have enticed him into turning to and fro, we have worked our way down. Now that he has rolled onto me, something I find very exhilarating, his hand clasping my wrist upon his pillow, I am completely at his mercy, the very idea of which I find all the more exciting.

"Okay," he says, his voice raw, his breathing coarse. "That is my limit."

"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it. I shouldn't goad him so, especially when I should know better.

He practically snorts, "Sorry? Why? You were driving me completely crazy. I figured this was a better reaction than going for your shirt."

I laugh, despite my little tantalizing thrill.

"I am still sorry," I say, and then a notion occurs to me, and I say with all the weight I can muster without shrills of happiness that would bring his mother down on us, "My poor, flustered boyfriend."

He goes completely still, once again forgetting that I was something more than human.

"Boyfriend?" he says, as though such a thought had never occurred to him.

"Yes," I say shyly, teasingly. "Aren't you? I am your girlfriend, aren't I?"

He seems to find his way back to the part of his brain that stores memory and his recall comes back to him. I know how he feels. That short time ago feels a world away. He seems a little embarrassed, as though him having feelings for me could ever cause me anything but joy.

"Did you mind?" he asks, asking if I minded being called his girlfriend!

I giggle at the very absurdity of such a notion.

"Not at all," then endearingly, I say, "It was very sweet."

He returns to his side, looking over to me, and I turn to face him, feeling like an equal in this little room, a cherished secret.

"So, I'm your girlfriend?" I ask, snuggling closer to him, loving the warmth saturated bedding here as much as I do when it is him directly against me.

"If you want," he says quickly, then adds even quicker, "I want you to be."

This time, I have to physically stifle my own laughter.

"Of course I want to be," I say after I have adequately subsided. "That is a given. I love you."

He puts his arms around me, and hold me to him, quieting, and simply holding me. In that moment, I would give just about anything I can think of to hear him!

"Tell me something," I say, trying not to sound desperate, "anything at all."

"I'm tired," he says quietly.

I look and see that sleep is starting to come into him. I stroke his face, at once berating myself for fear that it might drive his sleep off, but it seems to settle him even deeper, which I find so very heartening. My touch is desired, both in ecstasy and in recline. I satisfy him in so many ways, as he satisfies me.

"Are you ready to sleep now?" I ask.

"I don't know," he says. Then, worriedly, he adds, "Are you really going to stay?"

"Always," I say, meaning it, to the fullness of my abilities.

"I'm going to hold you to that," he says, the edges of his words becoming fuzzy.

"Here," I say, taking up his bunched bedding and settling it about him.

"What about you?" he says, sounding young and almost petulant.

"I don't need to protection from the cold," I say, my voice dropping to quiet him. "You do. If you are cold, I can lie further away, or sit in the chair if you are more comfortable."

He reaches for me, as though there is no obstacle between us, clutching me with determination. I have to press my face into his blanket to suppress my mirth, kissing the nearest bit of him I can get at, kissing my way back to his mouth.

"Aren't you uncomfortable?" he asks.

I don't get uncomfortable. Even so, I think it would be hard to find someone who is less uncomfortable than I am at that moment. Maybe if his mother wasn't here. Maybe if this was post-coitus...

"No," I say, shoving those thoughts away in a hurry. "Why?"

"My... scent," he says without confidence.

"Oh," I say, smiling and patting him through the blanket. "I am getting used to it. I have been closer to you, been around you more, in the last thirty-two hours than I ever have. I am sure if I were to stay away for any period of time, it would be harder-"

"Then never ever leave," he says immediately. "Ever."

I consider the practically of that idea and laugh quietly.

"I thought you had a problem with me joining you for showers," I point out.

"Um, huh," he says, seeming to consider, which strikes me as odd. Didn't we just have this conversation?

"When you put it like that," he says, "I guess I really don't mind so much."

"Why?" I ask inquisitively.

"Because," he says demurely, "I hadn't really thought about you... joining me. I thought you would just sort of watch, I guess. I mean, just be in the room or whatever."

I giggle. I wonder how long it will take for him to understand that he is desirable.

"You really didn't think about that?" I ask.

"No," he says. "Why would you join me? Do you even shower?"

I practically purr at the thought of my wonderful shower that I have off my room, the only part of the bathroom I use. Emanuel flushes toilets a few times a day for each of us, again, keeping up appearances.

"Yes, we do get dirty on occasion, though we do not have to worry about dead skin cells and sweat residue the way you do," I say. "And, after all, there is other benefits of showering. It feels very enjoyable."

"Yeah," he say, and his voice has started to take on the tone he usually only uses when he is asleep.

"You should sleep," I whisper to him.

"No," he rebuffs, sounding young again. "I don't want to go away."

I put my arms around him more securely.

"You're not going anywhere," I say gently, "and neither am I."

"But I'll miss you," he says, his words starting to run together and lose their annunciation.

"Sleep, Love," I whisper, giving a little giggle and stroking his hair. "I will be here when you wake up."

"You promise?" he asks, almost making it a single word.

"I promise," I say and do.

I begin to hum the lullaby I created for him, quiet and low, stroking him ever so softly, as I had in the days when I did not wish him to know that I was here. Now, I couldn't bare waking him. He has had such a long day. My love, my heart.

He mumbles something, on the very edge of sleep, completely unintelligible. At least, unintelligible to anyone who hasn't spent so many nights beside him, taking in everything in wrapped attention, memorizing every sound he makes, every little motion he does, and committing to knowing him best in the world.

"I love you too," I say back, and I stay.


End file.
